England" 's    Antipkvn. 


!*■' w 

Antiphon 

BY 
GSORGEr&ACDONAI/D,  L.L.D. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO. 

MACMIIylyAN  &c  Co 


"  Xift  up  your  hearts. "! 

"  W(t  lift  t\)tm  up  unto  %  3£oro. 


PREFACE. 


In  this  book  I  have  sought  to  trace  the  course  of 
our  religious  poetry  from  an  early  period  of  our 
literary  history. 

This  could  hardly  be  done  without  reference  to 
some  of  the  principal  phases  of  the  religious  history 
of  the  nation.  To  give  anything  like  a  full  history 
of  the  religious  feeling  of  a  single  county,  would 
require  a  large  book,  and — not  to  mention  sermons 
— would  involve  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  the 
hymns  of  the  country, — a  very  wide  subject,  which 
I  have  not  considered  of  sufficient  importance  from  a 
literary  point  of  view  to  come  within  the  scope  of  the 
volume. 

But  if  its  poetry  be  the  cream  of  a  people's  thought, 
some  true  indications  of  the  history  of  its  religious 
feeling  must  be  found  in    its    religious  verse,  and   I 


PREFACE. 


hope  I  have  not  altogether  failed  in  setting  forth 
these  indications. 

My  chief  aim,  however,  will  show  itself  to  have 
been  the  mediating  towards  an  intelligent  and  cordial 
sympathy  betwixt  my  readers  and  the  writers  from 
whom  I  have  quoted.  In  this  I  have  some  confidence 
of  success. 

Heartily  do  I  throw  this  my  small  pebble  at  the 
head  of  the  great  Sabbath-breaker  Schism, 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION I 

CHAPTER  I. 

SACRED   LYRICS   OF  THE  THIRTEENTH  CENTURY 5 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE   MIRACLE  PLAYS,   AND  OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH 

CENTURY 21 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE    FIFTEENTH    CENTURY 44 

CHAPTER  IV. 

INTRODUCTION   TO   THE    ELIZABETHAN   ERA  .......         55 

CHAPTER  V. 

SPENSER   AND   HIS    FRIENDS 62 

CHAPTER  VI. 

LORD    BACON   AND   HIS   COEVALS 93 

CHAPTER  VII. 

DR.    DONNE 113 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

BISHOP   HALL  AND   GEORGE   SANDYS I25 

CHAPTER   IX. 

A   FEW   OF  THE    ELIZABETHAN    DRAMATISTS I3I 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X.  page 

SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT  AND   DRUMMOND  OF  HAWTHORNDEN       .       I42 

CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  BROTHERS   FLETCHER 150 

CHAPTER  XII. 

WITHER,   HERRICK,   AND  QUARLES 1 59 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

GEORGE  HERBERT 174 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

JOHN  MILTON 194 

CHAPTER  XV. 

EDMUND  WALLER,  THOMAS  BROWN,   AND  JEREMY  TAYLOR.      .      212 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

HENRY  MORE  AND  RICHARD  BAXTER 223 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

CRASHAW  AND  MARVELL 238 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  MOUNT  OF  VISION — HENRY   VAUGHAN 25 1 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  PLAIN 280 

CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  ROOTS  OF  THE  HILLS 292 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE   NEW  VISION 301 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE   FERVOUR  OF  THE   IMPLICIT.      INSIGHT  OF  THE   HEART     .      3 12 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  QUESTIONING  FERVOUR 326 


ENGLAND'S    ANTIPHON. 


INTRODUCTION. 

If  the  act  of  worship  be  the  highest  human  condi- 
tion, it  follows  that  the  highest  human  art  must  find 
material  in  the  modes  of  worship.  The  first  poetry 
of  a  nation  will  not  be  religious  poetry  :  the  nation 
must  have  a  history  at  least  before  it  can  possess  any 
material  capable  of  being  cast  into  the  mould  of 
religious  utterance ;  but,  the  nation  once  possessed  of 
this  material,  poetry  is  the  first  form  religious  utter- 
ance will  assume. 

The  earliest  form  of  literature  is  the  ballad,  which 
is  the  germ  of  all  subsequent  forms  of  poetry,  for  it 
has  in  itself  all  their  elements :  the  lyric,  for  it  was 
first  chanted  to  some  stringed  instrument ;  the  epic, 
for  it  tells  a  tale,  often  of  solemn  and  ancient  report ; 
the  dramatic,  for  its  actors  are  ever  ready  to  start 
forward  into  life,  snatch  the  word  from  the  mouth  of 
the  narrator,  and  speak  in  their  own  persons.  All 
these  forms  have  been  used  for  the  utterance  of 
religious  thought  and  feeling.  Of  the  lyrical  poems 
of  England,  religion  possesses  the  most ;  of  the  epic, 
the  best ;  of  the  dramatic,  the  oldest. 

S.L.  iv.  1 


ENGLAND'S  AN  TIP  HON. 


Of  each  of  these  I  shall  have  occasion  to  speak  ; 
but,  as  the  title  of  the  book  implies, — for  Antiphon 
means  the  responsive  song  of  the  parted  choir, — I 
shall  have  chiefly  to  do  with  the  lyric  or  song  form. 

For  song  is  the  speech  of  feeling.  Even  the  prose 
of  emotion  always  wanders  into  the  rhythmical. 
Hence,  as  well  as  for  other  reasons  belonging  to  its 
nature,  it  is  one  chief  mode  in  which  men  unite  to 
praise  God  ;  for  in  thus  praising  they  hold  communion 
with  each  other,  and  the  praise  expands  and  grows. 

The  individual  heart,  however,  must  first  have 
been  uplifted  into  praiseful  song,  before  the  common 
ground  and  form  of  feeling,  in  virtue  of  which  men 
might  thus  meet,  could  be  supplied.  But  the  vocal 
utterance  or  the  bodily  presence  is  not  at  all  neces- 
sary for  this  communion.  When  we  read  rejoicingly 
the  true  song-speech  of  one  of  our  singing  brethren, 
we  hold  song-worship  with  him  and  with  all  who  have 
thus  at  any  time  shared  in  his  feelings,  even  if  he 
have  passed  centuries  ago  into  the  "  high  countries  " 
of  song. 

My  object  is  to  erect,  as  it  were,  in  this  book,  a 
little  auricle,  or  spot  of  concentrated  hearing,  where 
the  hearts  of  my  readers  may  listen,  and  join  in  the 
song  of  their  country's  singing  men  and  singing 
women. 

I  will  build  it,  if  I  may,  like  a  chapel  in  the  great 
church  of  England's  worship,  gathering  the  sounds 
of  its  never-ceasing  choir,  heart  after  heart  lifting  up 
itself  in  the  music  of  speech,  heart  after  heart  respond- 
hcr  across  the  ages.     Hearing,  we  worship  with  them. 


INTRODUCTION. 


For  we  must  not  forget  that,  although  the  individual 
song  springs  from  the  heart  of  the  individual,  the 
song  of  a  country  is  not  merely  cumulative  :  it  is  vital 
in  its  growth,  and  therefore  composed  of  historically 
dependent  members.  No  man  could  sing  as  he  has 
sung,  had  not  others  sung  before  him.  Deep  answereth 
unto  deep,  face  to  face,  praise  to  praise.  To  the  sound 
of  the  trumpet  the  harp  returns  its  own  vibrating 
response — alike,  but  how  different !  The  religious 
song  of  the  country,  I  say  again,  is  a  growth,  rooted 
deep  in  all  its  story. 

Besides  the  fact  that  the  lyric  chiefly  will  rouse 
the  devotional  feeling,  there  is  another  reason  why 
I  should  principally  use  it  :  I  wish  to  make  my  book 
valuable  in  its  parts  as  in  itself.  The  value  of  a 
thing  depends  in  large  measure  upon  its  unity,  its 
wholeness.  In  a  work  of  these  limits,  that  form  of 
verse  alone  can  be  available  for  its  unity  which  is 
like  the  song  of  the  bird — a  warble  and  then  a  still- 
ness. However  valuable  an  extract  may  be — and  I 
shall  not  quite  eschew  such — an  entire  lyric,  I  had 
almost  said  however  inferior,  if  worthy  of  a  place  at  all, 
is  of  greater  value,  especially  if  regarded  in  relation  to 
the  form  of  setting  with  which  I  hope  to  surround  it. 

There  is  a  sense  in  which  I  may,  without  presump- 
tion, adopt  the  name  of  Choragus,  or  leader  of  the 
chorus,  in  relation  to  these  singers  :  I  must  take  upon 
me  to  order  who  shall  sing,  when  he  shall  sing,  and 
which  of  his  songs  he  shall  sing.  But  I  would  rather 
assume  the  office  of  master  of  the  hearing,  for  my 
aim  shall  be  to  cause  the  song  to  be  truly  heard  ;  to 

B  2 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


set  forth  worthy  points  in  form,  in  matter,  and  in 
relation  ;  to  say  with  regard  to  the  singer  himself, 
his  time,  its  modes,  its  beliefs,  such  things  as  may 
help  to  set  the  song  in  its  true  light — its  relation, 
namely,  to  the  source  whence  it  sprung,  which  alone 
can  secure  its  right  reception  by  the  heart  of  the 
hearer.  For  my  chief  aim  will  be  the  heart ;  seeing 
that,  although  there  is  no  dividing  of  the  one  from 
the  other,  the  heart  can  do  far  more  for  the  intellect 
than  the  intellect  can  do  for  the  heart. 

We  must  not  now  attempt  to  hear  the  singers  of 
times  so  old  that  their  language  is  unintelligible  with- 
out labour.  For  this  there  is  not  room,  even  if  other- 
wise it  were  desirable  that  such  should  divide  the 
volume.  We  must  leave  Anglo-Saxon  behind  us. 
In  Early  English,  I  shall  give  a  few  valuable  lyrics, 
but  they  shall  not  be  so  far  removed  from  our  present 
speech  but  that,  with  a  reasonable  amount  of  assist- 
ance, the  nature  and  degree  of  which  I  shall  set  forth, 
they  shall  not  only  present  themselves  to  the  reader's 
understanding,  but  commend  themselves  to  his  ima- 
gination and  judgment. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SACRED   LYRICS   OF  THE   THIRTEENTH   CENTURY. 

In  the  midst  of  wars  and  rumours  of  wars,  the 
strife  of  king  and  barons,  and  persistent  efforts  to 
subdue  neighbouring  countries,  the  mere  effervescence 
of  the  life  of  the  nation,  let  us  think  for  a  moment  of 
that  to  which  the  poems  I  am  about  to  present  bear 
good  witness — the  true  life  of  the  people,  growing 
quietly,  slowly,  unperceived — the  leaven  hid  in  the 
meal.  For  what  is  the  true  life  of  a  nation  ?  That, 
I  answer,  in  its  modes  of  thought,  its  manners  and 
habits,  which  favours  the  growth  within  the  individual 
of  that  kingdom  of  heaven  for  the  sake  only  of  which 
the  kingdoms  of  earth  exist.  The  true  life  of  the 
people,  as  distinguished  from  the  nation,  is  simply 
the  growth  in  its  individuals  of  those  eternal  prin- 
ciples of  truth,  in  proportion  to  whose  power  in 
them  they  take  rank  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  the 
only  kingdom  that  can  endure,  all  others  being  but 
as  the  mimicries  of  children  playing  at  government. 

Little  as  they  then  knew  of  the  relations  of  the 
wonderful    story  on  which   their  faith  was  built,   to 

everything  human,  the  same  truth  was  at  work  then 

1* 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


which  is  now — poor  as  the  recognition  of  these  rela- 
tions yet  is — slowly  setting  men  free.  In  the  hardest 
winter  the  roots  are  still  alive  in  the  frozen  ground. 

In  the  silence  of  the  monastery,  unnatural  as  that 
life  was,  germinated  much  of  this  deeper  life.     As  we 
must  not  judge  of  the  life  of  the  nation  by  its  kings 
and  mighty  men,  so  we  must  not  judge  of  the  life  in 
the   Church  by  those  who  are  called    Rabbi.      The 
very  notion  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  implies  a  secret 
growth,  secret    from   no  affectation  of   mystery,  but 
because  its  goings-on  are  in  the  depths  of  the  human 
nature  where  it  holds  communion  with  the   Divine. 
In  the  Church,  as  in  society,  we  often  find  that  that 
which  shows  itself  uppermost  is  but  the  froth,  a  sign,  it 
may  be,  of  life  beneath,  but  in  itself  worthless.    When 
the  man  arises  with  a  servant's  heart  and  a  ruler's 
brain,  then  is  the  summer  of  the  Church's  content. 
But  whether  the  men  who  wrote  the  following  songs 
moved   in  some  shining  orbit  of  rank,  or  only  knelt 
in  some  dim  chapel,  and  walked  in  some  pale  cloister, 
we  cannot  tell,  for  they  have  left  no  name  behind  them. 
My  reader  will  observe  that  there  is  little  of  theory 
and  much  of  love  in  these  lyrics.      The  recognition 
of  a  living  Master  is  far  more  than  any  notions  about 
him.     In  the  worship  of  him  a  thousand   truths  are 
working,  unknown  and  yet  active,  which,  embodied 
in  theory,  and  dissociated  from  the  living  mind  that 
was  in  Christ,  will  as  certainly  breed  worms  as  any 
omer  of  hoarded  manna.      Holding  the  skirt  of  his 
garment  in  one  hand,  we  shall  in  the  other  hold  the 
^ey  to  a}l  the  treasures  p(  wisdom  and  knowledge. 


MODE  OF  PRESENTMENT. 


I  think  almost  all  the  earliest  religious  poetry  is 
about  him  and  his  mother.  Their  longing  after  his 
humanity  made  them  idolize  his  mother.  If  we 
forget  that  only  through  his  humanity  can  we  ap- 
proach his  divinity,  we  shall  soon  forget  likewise  that 
his  mother  is  blessed  among  women. 

I  take  the  poems  from  one  of  the  Percy  Society 
publications,  edited  by  Mr.  Wright  from  a  manuscript 
in  the  British  Museum.  He  adjudges  them  to  the 
reign  of  Edward  I.  Perhaps  we  may  find  in  them 
a  sign  or  two  that  in  cultivating  our  intellect  we 
have  in  some  measure  neglected  our  heart. 

But  first  as  to  the  mode  in  which  I  present  them  to 
my  readers  :  I  have  followed  these  rules  : — 

1.  Wherever  a  word  differs  from  the  modern  word 
only  in  spelling,  I  have,  for  the  sake  of  readier  com- 
prehension, substituted  the  modern  form,  with  the 
following  exception : — Where  the  spelling  indicates  a 
different  pronunciation,  necessary  for  the  rhyme  or 
the  measure,  I  retain  such  part  of  the  older  form, 
marking  with  an  acute  accent  any  vowel  now  silent 
which  must  be  sounded. 

2.  Where  the  word  used  is  antique  in  root,  I  give 
the  modern  synonym  in  the  margin.  Antique  phrases 
I  explain  in  foot-notes. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  our  modern  pronun- 
ciation can  hardly  fail  in  other  cases  as  well  to  injure 
the  melody  of  the  verses. 

The  modern  reader  will  often  find  it  difficult  to  get  a 
rhythm  out  of  some  of  them.  This  may  arise  from  any 
of  several  causes.     In  the  first  place  many  final  ^'s  were 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


then  sounded  which  are  now  silent ;  and  it  is  not  easy 
to  tell  which  of  them  to  sound.  Again,  some  words 
were  pronounced  as  dissyllables  which  we  treat  as 
monosyllables,  and  others  as  monosyllables  which  we 
treat  as  dissyllables.  I  suspect  besides,  that  some  of 
the  old  writers  were  content  to  allow  a  prolonged 
syllable  to  stand  for  two  short  ones,  a  mode  not 
without  great  beauty  when  sparingly  and  judiciously 
employed.  Short  supernumerary  syllables  were  like- 
wise allowed  considerable  freedom  to  come  and  go. 
A  good  deal  must,  however,  be  put  down  to  the 
carelessness  and  presumption  of  the  transcribers,  who 
may  very  well  have  been  incapable  of  detecting  their 
own  blunders.  One  of  these  ancient  mechanics  of 
literature  caused  Chaucer  endless  annoyance  with  his 
corruptions,  as  a  humorous  little  poem,  the  last  in  his 
works,  sufficiently  indicates.  From  the  same  sources 
no  doubt  spring  as  well  most  of  the  variations  of  text 
in  the  manuscripts. 

The  first  of  the  poems  is  chiefly  a  conversation 
between  the  Lord  on  the  cross  and  his  mother 
standing  at  its  foot.  A  few  prefatory  remarks  in 
explanation  of  some  of  its  allusions  will  help  my 
readers  to  enjoy  it. 

It  was  at  one  time  a  common  belief,  and  the 
notion  has  not  yet,  I  think,  altogether  vanished,  that 
the  dying  are  held  back  from  repose  by  the  love  that 
is  unwilling  to  yield  them  up.  Hence,  in  the  third 
stanza,  the  Lord  prays  his  mother  to  let  him  die. 

In  the  fifth,  he  reasons  against  her  overwhelming 
sorrows  on  the  ground  of  the  deliverance  his  suffer- 


MARY  AT  THE  CROSS. 


ings  will  bring  to  the  human  race.  But  she  can  only 
feel  her  own  misery. 

To  understand  the  seventh  and  eighth,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  know  that,  among  other  strange  things  ac- 
cepted by  the  early  Church,  it  was  believed  that  the 
mother  of  Jesus  had  no  suffering  at  his  birth.  This 
of  course  rendered  her  incapable  of  perfect  sympathy 
with  other  mothers.  It  is  a  lovely  invention,  then, 
that  he  should  thus  commend  mothers  to  his  mother, 
telling  her  to  judge  of  the  pains  of  motherhood  by 
those  which  she  now  endured.  Still  he  fails  to  turn 
aside  her  thoughts.  She  is  thinking  still  only  of  her 
own  and  her  son's  suffering,  while  he  continues  bent 
on  making  her  think  of  others,  until,  at  last,  forth 
comes  her  prayer  for  all  women.  This  seems  to  me 
a  tenderness  grand  as  exquisite. 

The  outburst  of  the  chorus  of  the  Faithful  in  the 
last  stanza  but  one, — 

When  he  rose,  then  fell  her  sorrow, 

is  as  fine  as  anything  I  know  in  the  region  of  the 
lyric. 

"  Stand  well,  mother,  under  rood  ; *  the  cross. 

Behold  thy  son  with  glade  mood  ;  checeful. 

Blithe  mother  mayst  thou  be. " 
"  Son,  how  should  I  blithe  stand  ? 
I  see  thy  feet,  I  see  thy  hand 

Nailed  to  the  hard  tree." 

1  The  rhymes  of  the  first  and  second  and  of  the  fourth  and  fifth 
lines  throughout  the  stanzas,  are  all,  I  think,  what  the  French  call 
feminine  rhymes,  as  in  the  words  "  sleeping,"  "  weeping."  This  I  think 
it  better  not  to  attempt  retaining,  because  the  final  unaccented  syllable 
is  generally  one  of  those  Ss  which,  having  first  become  mute,  have 
since  been  dropped  from  our  spelling  altogether. 


IO 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


"Mother,  do  way  thy  wepynde  : 
I  thole  death  for  mankind — 

For  my  guilt  thole  I  none." 
"  Son,  I  feel  the  dede  stounde ; 

The  sword  is  at  my  heait's  ground 

That  me  byhet  Simeon." 
"  Mother,  mercy  !  let  me  die, 
For  Adam  out  of  hell  buy, 

And  his  kin  that  is  forlore." 
"  Son,  what  shall  me  to  rede  ? l 
My  pain  paineth  me  to  dede : 

Let  me  die  thee  before  !" 

"  Mother,  thou  rue  all  of  thy  bairn  ; 
Thou  wash  away  the  bloody  tern  ; 

It  doth  me  worse  than  my  ded." 
"  Son,  how  may  I  teres  werne  ? 
I  see  the  bloody  streames  erne 

From  thy  heart  to  my  fet." 

"  Mother,  now  I  may  thee  seye, 
Better  is  that  I  one  deye 

Than  all  mankind  to  helle  go." 
"  Son,  I  see  thy  body  byswongen, 
Feet  and  hands  throughout  stongen : 

No  wonder  though  me  be  woe." 

"  Mother,  now  I  shall  thee  tell, 
If  I  not  die,  thou  goest  to  hell : 

I  thole  death  for  thy  sake." 
"  Son,  thou  art  so  meek  and  mynde, 
Ne  wyt  me  not,  it  is  my  kind  2 

That  I  for  thee  this  sorrow  make." 

"  Mother,  now  thou  mayst  well  leren 
What  sorrow  have  that  children  beren, 
What  sorrow  it  is  with  childe  gon." 


give  over  thy  weeping* 
suffer. 

death-pang. 

bottom, 
foreshowed. 

for  to  buy  Adam, 
lost. 

death. 


rue  thou:  all  is  only  exple- 

wash  thou:  tears.  [tive. 

hurts  me  more :  death. 

turn  aside  tears, 
flow. 
feet. 

say  to  thee, 
die. 

lashed. 

pierced      through      and 

woe  be  to  me.  [through. 


endure, 
thoughtful. 


learn. 

they  have:  bear. 

to  go. 


i  For  the  grammatical  interpretation  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted  to 
Mr.  Richard  Morris.  Shall  is  here  used,  as  it  often  is,  in  the  sense  of 
must,  and  rede  is  a  noun ;  the  paraphrase  of  the  whole  being,  "  Sont 
what  must  be  to  me  for  counsel  ?  "     "  What  counsel  must  I  follow  ?  " 

a  "  Do  not  blame  me,  it  is  my  nature." 


MARY  AT  THE  CROSS. 


ii 


"  Sorrow,  I  wis  !     I  can  thee  tell ! 
But  it  be  the  pain  of  hell 
More  sorrow  wot  I  none." 

"  Mother,  rue  of  mother-care, 
For  now  thou  wost  of  mother-fare, 

Though  thou  be  clean  maiden  mon."1 
"  Sone,  help  at  alle  need 
Alle  those  that  to  me  grede, 

Maiden,  wife,  and  full  wymmon." 

"  Mother,  may  I  no  longer  dwell ; 
The  time  is  come  I  shall  to  hell ; 

The  third  day  I  rise  upon." 
"  Son,  I  will  with  thee  founden  ; 
I  die,  I  wis,  for  thy  wounden  : 

So  sorrowful  death  nes  never  none." 

When  he  rose,  then  fell  her  sorrow ; 
Her  bliss  sprung  the  third  morrow  : 

Blithe  mother  wert  thou  tho  ! 
Lady,  for  that  ilke  bliss, 
Beseech  thy  son  of  sunnes  lisse  : 

Thou  be  our  shield  against  our  foe. 


except. 


take  pity  upon, 
knowest. 


cry. 

woman  with  child. 


set  out,  go. 


was  not  never  none. 


then, 
same, 
for  sin's  release. 
Be  thou. 


Blessed  be  thou,  full  of  bliss  ! 
Let  us  never  heaven  miss, 

Through  thy  sweete  Sones  might ! 
Loverd,  for  that  ilke  blood,  Lord. 

That  thou  sheddest  on  the  rood, 

Thou  bring  us  into  heaven's  light.     Amen. 

I  think  my  readers  will  not  be  sorry  to  have  another 
of  a  similar  character. 

I  sigh  when  I  sing 

For  sorrow  that  I  see, 
When  I  with  weeping 

Behold  upon  the  tree, 


1  Mon  is  used  for  man  or  woman  :  human  being. 
Lancashire  still  :  they  say  mon  to  a  woman. 


It  is  so  used  in 


12 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


And  see  Jesus  the  sweet 

His  heart's  blood  for-lete  yield  quite. 

For  the  love  of  me. 
His  woundes  waxen  wete,  wet. 

They  weepen  still  and  mete  i1 

Mary  rueth  thee.  pitieth. 

High  upon  a  down,  hill. 

Where  all  folk  it  see  may, 
A  mile  from  each  town, 

About  the  mid-day, 
The  rood  is  up  areared ; 
His  friendes  are  afeared, 

And  clingeth  so  the  clay  ; 2 
The  rood  stands  in  stone, 
Mary  stands  her  on, 

And  saith  Welaway  ! 


When  I  thee  behold 

With  eyen  brighte  bo, 
And  thy  body  cold — 

Thy  ble  waxeth  bio, 
Thou  hangest  all  of  blood 
So  high  upon  the  rood 

Between  thieves  tuo — 
Who  may  sigh  more  ? 
Mary  weepeth  sore, 

And  sees  all  this  woe. 


eyes  bright  both. 

colour:  livid, 
bloody. 

two. 


The  nails  be  too  strong, 

The  smiths  are  too  sly  ;  skilful. 

Thou  bleedest  all  too  long  ; 

The  tree  is  all  too  high ; 
The  stones  be  all  wete  !  wet. 

Alas,  Jesu,  the  sweet ! 

For  now  friend  hast  thou  none, 


1  "They  weep  quietly  and  becomingly."  I  think  there  must  be  in 
this  word  something  of  the  sense  of  gently,  uncomplainingly. 

a  "And  are  shrunken  {clung  with  fear)  like  the  clay."  So  here  is 
the  same  as  as.     For  this  interpretation  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Morris. 


THE  MOURNING  DISCIPLE. 


n 


But  Saint  John  to-mournynde, 
And  Mary  wepynde, 
For  pain  that  thee  is  on. 

Oft  when  I  sike 

And  makie  my  moan, 
Well  ill  though  me  like, 

Wonder  is  it  none,1 
When  I  see  hang  high 
And  bitter  pains  dreye, 

Jesu,  my  lemmon  ! 
His  woundes  sore  smart, 
The  spear  all  to  his  heart 

And  through  his  side  is  gone. 

Oft  when  I  syke, 

With  care  I  am  through-sought 
When  I  wake  I  wyke  ; 

Of  sorrow  is  all  my  thought. 
Alas  !  men  be  wood 
That  swear  by  the  rood 

And  sell  him  for  nought 
That  bought  us  out  of  sin. 
He  bring  us  to  wynne, 

That  hath  us  dear  bought ! 


mourning  greatly, 
weeping. 


dree,  endure, 
love. 


sigh. 

searched  through. 

languish. 

mad. 

swear  by  the  cross. 


may  he :  bliss. 


I  add  two  stanzas  of  another  of  like  sort. 

Man  that  is  in  glory  and  bliss, 

And  lieth  in  shame  and  sin, 
He  is  more  than  unwis  unwise. 

That  thereof  will  not  blynne.  cease. 

All  this  world  it  goeth  away, 
Me  thinketh  it  nigheth  Doomsday ; 

Now  man  goes  to  ground  :  perishes. 

Jesus  Christ  that  tholed  ded  endured  death. 

He  may  our  souls  to  heaven  led  lead. 

Within  a  little  stound.  moment. 


1  "  It  is  no  wonder  though  it  pleases  me  very  ill.' 
2 


14  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Jesus,  that  was  mild  and  free, 

Was  with  spear  y-stongen  ; 

stung  or  pierced. 

He  was  nailed  to  the  tree, 

With  scourges  y-SAVongen. 

lashed. 

All  for  man  he  tholed  shame, 

endured. 

Withouten  guilt,  withouten  blame, 

Bothe  day  and  other.1 

Man,  full  muchel  he  loved  thee, 

much. 

When  he  wolde  make  thee  free, 

And  become  thy  brother. 

The  simplicity,  the  tenderness,  the  devotion  of 
these  lyrics  is  to  me  wonderful.  Observe  their  realism, 
as,  for  instance,  in  the  words  :  rt  The  stones  beoth  al 
wete;"  a  realism  as  far  removed  from  the  coarseness 
of  a  Rubens  as  from  the  irreverence  of  too  many 
religious  teachers,  who  will  repeat  and  repeat  again 
the  most  sacred  words  for  the  merest  logical  ends 
until  the  tympanum  of  the  moral  ear  hears  without 
hearing  the  sounds  that  ought  to  be  felt  as  well  as 
held  holiest.  They  bear  strongly,  too,  upon  the  out- 
come of  feeling  in  action,  although  doubtless  there 
was  the  same  tendency  then  as  there  is  now  to  regard 
the  observance  of  church-ordinances  as  the  service  of 
Christ,  instead  of  as  a  means  of  gathering  strength 
wherewith  to  serve  him  by  being  in  the  world  as  he 
was  in  the  world. 

From  a  poem  of  forty-eight  stanzas  I  choose  five, 
partly  in  order  to  manifest  that,  although  there  is 
in   it  an  occasional  appearance  of  what   we  should 

1  I  think  the  poet,  wisely  anxious  to  keep  his  last  line  just  what 
it  is,  was  perplexed  for  a  rhyme,  and  fell  on  the  odd  device  of  saying, 
for  "  both  day  and  night,"  "  both  day  and  the  other." 


LOVE  AND  OBEDIENCE. 


15 


consider  sentimentality,  allied  in  nature  to  that  wor- 
ship of  the  Virgin  which  is  more  a  sort  of  French 
gallantry  than  a  feeling  of  reverence,  the  sense  of 
duty  to  the  Master  keeps  pace  with  the  profession  of 
devotedness  to  him.  There  is  so  little  continuity 
of  thought  in  it,  that  the  stanzas  might  almost  be 
arranged  anyhow. 


Jesu,  thy  love  be  all  my  thought ; 
Of  other  thing  ne  reck  I  nought ; 
I  yearn  to  have  thy  will  y- wrought, 
For  thou  me  hast  well  dear  y-bought. 


reckon. 


Jesu,  well  may  mine  hearte  see 

That  mild  and  meek  he  must  be, 

All  unthews  and  lustes  flee,  bad  habits. 

That  feelen  will  the  bliss  of  thee.  feel. 

For  sinful  folk,  sweet  Jesus, 
Thou  lightest  from  the  high  house  ; 
Poor  and  low  thou  wert  for  us. 
Thine  heart's  love  thou  sendest  us. 


Jesu,  therefore  beseech  I  thee 
Thy  sweet  love  thou  grant  me  ; 
That  I  thereto  worthy  be, 
Make  me  worthy  that  art  so  free. 


thou  that  art. 


Jesu,  thine  help  at  my  ending  ! 
And  in  that  dreadful  out-wending, 
Send  my  soul  good  weryyng, 
That  I  ne  dread  none  evil  thing. 


going  f oi-th  of  the  spirit, 
guard. 


I  shall  next  present  a  short  lyric,  displaying  more 
of  art  than  this  last,  giving  it  now  in  the  old  form, 
and   afterwards  in  a  new  one,   that  my  reader  may 


16  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

see  both  how  it  looks  in  its  original  dress,  and  what 
it  means. 

Wynter  wakeneth  al  my  care, 

Nou  this  leves  waxeth  bare, 

Ofte  y  sike  ant  mourne  sare,  sigh  :  sore. 

When  hit  cometh  in  my  thoht 

Of  this  worldes  joie,  how  hit  goth  al 
to  noht. 

Now  hit  is,  ant  now  hit  nys,  it  is  not. 

Also  hit  ner  nere  y-wys,1 

That  moni  mon  seith  soth  hit  ys,a 

Al  goth  bote  Godes  wille, 

Alle  we  shule  deye,  thah  us  like  ylle.  though  it  pleases  us  ill. 

Al  that  gren  me  graueth  grene,8 

Nou  hit  faleweth  al  by-dene;  grows  yellow:  speedily. 

Jhesu,  help  that  hit  be  sene,  seen. 

Ant  shild  us  from  helle  ; 

For  y  not  whider  y  shal,  ne  hou  longe 
her  duelle.4 

I  will  now  give  a  modern  version  of  it,  in  which 
I  have  spoiled  the  original  of  course,  but  I  hope  as 
little  as  well  may  be. 

Winter  wakeneth  all  my  care  ; 

Now  the  trees  are  waxing  bare  ; 

Oft  my  sighs  my  grief  declare6 

WThen  it  comes  into  my  thought 

Of  this  world's  joy,  how  it  goes  all  to  nought. 

i  "  All  as  if  it  were  not  never,  I  wis." 

2  "  So  that  many  men  say — True  it  is,  all  goeth  but  God's  will." 

'     I  conjecture  "  All  that  grain  (me)  groweth  green." 

4  Not  is  a  contraction  for  ne  wot,   know   not.      "  For   I   know  not 

whither  I  must  go,  nor  how  long  here  I  dwell."     I  think  y  is  omitted 

by  mistake  before  duelle. 

6  This  is  very  poor  compared  with  the  original. 


WILLIAM  DE  SHOREHAM.  17 

Now  it  is,  and  now  'tis  not — 
As  it  ne'er  had  been,  I  wot. 
Hence  many  say — it  is  man's  lot  : 

All  goeth  but  God's  will ; 

We  all  die,  though  we  like  it  ill. 

Green  about  me  grows  the  grain  ; 
Now  it  yelloweth  all  again  : 
Jesus,  give  us  help  amain, 

And  shield  us  from  hell ; 

For  when  or  whither  I  go  I  cannot  tell 

There  were  no  doubt  many  religious  poems  in 
a  certain  amount  of  circulation  of  a  different  cast 
from  these  ;  some  a  metrical  recounting  of  portions 
of  the  Bible  history — a  kind  unsuited  to  our  ends  ; 
others  a  setting  forth  of  the  doctrines  and  duties 
then  believed  and  taught.  Of  the  former  class  is  one 
of  the  oldest  Anglo-Saxon  poems  we  have,  that  of 
Caedmon,  and  there  are  many  specimens  to  be  found 
in  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries.  They 
could,  however,  have  been  of  little  service  to  the 
people,  so  few  of  whom  could  read,  or  could  have 
procured  manuscripts  if  they  had  been  able  to  use 
them.  A  long  and  elaborate  composition  of  the  latter 
class  was  written  in  the  reign  of  Edward  II.  by 
William  de  Shoreham,  vicar  of  Chart-Sutton  in  Kent. 
He  probably  taught  his  own  verses  to  the  people 
at  his  catechisings.  The  intention  was,  no  doubt,  by 
the  aid  of  measure  and  rhyme  to  facilitate  the  remem- 
brance of  the  facts  and  doctrines.  It  consists  of  a 
long  poem  on  the  Seven  Sacraments  ;  of  a  shorter, 
associating  the  Canonical  Hours  with  the  principal 
events  of  the  close  of  our  Lord's  life  ;  of  an  exposi- 
tion of  the  Ten  Commandments,  followed  by  a  kind 

S.L.  IV.  2* 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


of  treatise  on  the  Seven  Cardinal  Sins  :  the  fifth  part 
describes  the  different  joys  of  the  Virgin ;  the  sixth, 
in  praise  of  the  Virgin,  is  perhaps  the  most  poetic  ; 
the  last  is  less  easy  to  characterize.  The  poem  is 
written  in  the  Kentish  dialect,  and  is  difficult 

I  shall  now  turn  into  modern  verse  a  part  of  "  The 
Canonical  Hours,"  giving  its  represented  foundation 
of  the  various  acts  of  worship  in  the  Romish  Church 
throughout  the  day,  from  early  in  the  morning  to  the 
last  service  at  night.  After  every  fact  concerning 
our  Lord,  follows  an  apostrophe  to  his  mother,  which 
I  omit,  being  compelled  to  choose. 

Father's  wisdom  lifted  high, 

Lord  of  us  aright — 
God  and  man  taken  was, 

At  matin-time  by  night 
The  disciples  that  were  his, 

Anon  they  him  forsook; 
Sold  to  Jews  and  betrayed, 

To  torture  him  took. 

At  the  prime  Jesus  was  led 

In  presence  of  Pilate, 
Where  witnesses,  false  and  fell, 

Laughed  at  him  for  hate. 
In  the  neck  they  him  smote, 

Bound  his  hands  of  might  ; 
Spit  upon  that  sweet  face 

That  heaven  and  earth  did  light. 

"  Crucify  him  !  crucify  !  " 

They  cried  at  nine  o'clock  ; 
A  purple  cloth  they  put  on  him — 

To  stare  at  him  and  mock. 
They  upon  his  sweet  head 

Stuck  a  thorny  crown  ; 
To  Calvary  his  cross  he  bears, 

Pitiful,  from  the  town 


THE  CANONICAL  HOURS.  19 

Jesus  was  nailed  on  the  cross 

At  the  noon-tide  ; 
Strong  thieves  they  hanged  up, 

One  on  either  side. 
In  his  pain,  his  strong  thirst 

Quenched  they  with  gall ; 
So  that  God's  holy  Lamb 

From  sin  washed  us  all. 

At  the  nones  Jesus  Christ 

Felt  the  hard  death  ; 
He  to  his  father  "Eloi !"  cried, 

Gan  up  yield  his  breath. 
A  soldier  with  a  sharp  spear 

Pierced  his  right  side  ; 
The  earth  shook,  the  sun  grew  dim, 

The  moment  that  he  died. 

He  was  taken  off  the  cross 

At  even-song's  hour  ; 
The  strength  left  and  hid  in  God 

Of  our  Saviour. 
Such  death  he  underwent, 

Of  life  the  medicine ! 
Alas  !  he  was  laid  adown — 

The  crown  of  bliss  in  pine  ! 

At  complines,  it  was  borne  away 

To  the  burying, 
That  noble  corpse  of  Jesus  Christ, 

Hope  of  life's  coming. 
Anointed  richly  it  was, 

Fulfilled  his  holy  book  : 
I  pray,  Lord,  thy  passion 

In  my  mind  lock. 

Childlike  simplicity,  realism,  and  tenderness  will 
be  evident  in  this,  as  in  preceding  poems,  especially 
in  the  choice  of  adjectives.     But  indeed  the  combina- 

C   2 


2o  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

tion  of  certain  words  had  become  conventional ;  as 
"  The  hard  tree,"  "  The  nails  great  and  strong,"  and 
such  like. 

I  know  I  have  spoiled  the  poem  in  half-translating 
it  thus ;  but  I  have  rendered  it  intelligible  to  all  my 
readers,  have  not  wandered  from  the  original,  and 
have  retained  a  degree  of  antiqueness  both  in  the 
tone  and  the  expression. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MIRACLE  PLAYS  AND  OTHER  POEMS  OF  THE  FOURTEENTH 
CENTURY. 

The  oldest  form  of  regular  dramatic  representation 
in  England  was  the  Miracle  Plays,  improperly  called 
Mysteries,  after  the  French.  To  these  plays  the 
people  of  England,  in  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth 
centuries,  owed  a  very  large  portion  of  what  religious 
knowledge  they  possessed,  for  the  prayers  were  in 
an  unknown  tongue,  the  sermons  were  very  few,  and 
printing  was  uninvented.  The  plays  themselves,  in- 
troduced into  the  country  by  the  Normans,  were,  in 
the  foolish  endeavour  to  make  Normans  of  Anglo- 
Saxons,  represented  in  Norman  French1  until  the 
year  1338,  when  permission  was  obtained  from  the 
Pope  to  represent  them  in  English. 

The  word  Miracle,  in  their  case,  means  anything 
recorded  in  Scripture.  The  Miracle  Plays  had  for 
their  subjects  the  chief  incidents  of  Old  and  New 
Testament  history;  not  merely,  however,  of  this 
history  as  accepted  by  the  Reformed  Church,  but  of 

1  I  owe  almost  all  my  information  on  the  history  of  these  plays  to 
Mr.  Collier's  well-known  work  on  English  Dramatic  Poetry. 


22  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

that  contained  in  the  Apocryphal  Gospels  as  well. 
An  entire  series  of  these  Miracles  consisted  of  short 
dramatic  representations  of  many  single  passages  of 
the  sacred  story.  The  whole  would  occupy  about  three 
days.  It  began  with  the  Creation,  and  ended  with 
the  Judgment.  That  for  which  the  city  of  Coventry 
was  famous  consists  of  forty-two  subjects,  with  a  long 
prologue.  Composed  by  ecclesiastics,  the  plays  would 
seem  to  have  been  first  represented  by  them  only, 
although  afterwards  it  was  not  always  considered 
right  for  the  clergy  to  be  concerned  with  them.  The 
hypocritical  Franciscan  friar,  in  "  Piers  Ploughman's 
Creed,"  a  poem  of  the  close  of  the  same  century, 
claims  as  a  virtue  for  his  order — 

At  markets  and  miracles  we  meddleth  us  never. 

They  would  seem  likewise  to  have  been  first  repre- 
sented in  churches  and  chapels,  sometimes  in  church- 
yards. Later,  when  the  actors  chiefly  belonged  to 
city-guilds,  they  were  generally  represented  in  the 
streets  and  squares. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind  by  any  who  would 
understand  the  influence  of  these  plays  upon  the 
people,  that  much  in  them  appearing  to  us  grotesque, 
childish,  absurd,  and  even  irreverent,  had  no  such 
appearance  in  the  eyes  of  the  spectators.  A  certain 
amount  of  the  impression  of  absurdity  is  simply  the 
consequence  of  antiquity  ;  and  even  that  which  is 
rightly  regarded  as  absurd  in  the  present  age,  will  not 
at  least  have  produced  the  discomposing  effects  of  ab- 
surdity upon  the  less  developed  beholders  of  that  age; 


THE  MIR  A  CLE  PLA  YS.  23 

just  as  the  quaint  pictures  with  which  their  churches 
were  decorated  may  make  us  smile,  but  were  by  them 
regarded  with  awe  and  reverence  from  their  infancy. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  there  is  in  them  even 
occasional  coarseness  ;  but  that  the  devil  for  instance 
should  always  be  represented  as  a  baffled  fool,  and 
made  to  play  the  buffoon  sometimes  after  a  disgusting 
fashion,  was  to  them  only  the  treatment  he  deserved : 
it  was  their  notion  of  "  poetic  justice  ; "  while  most  of 
them  were  too  childish  to  be  shocked  at  the  discord 
thus  introduced,  and  many,  we  may  well  hope,  too 
childlike  to  lose  their  reverence  for  the  holy  because 
of  the  proximity  of  the  ridiculous. 

There  seems  to  me  considerably  more  of  poetic 
worth  scattered  through  these  plays  than  is  generally 
recognized ;  and  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  do  a  little 
to  set  forth  the  fact.  I  cannot  doubt  that  my 
readers  will  be  interested  in  such  fragments  as  the 
scope  and  design  of  my  book  will  allow  me  to  offer. 
Had  there  been  no  such  passages,  I  might  have 
regarded  the  plays  as  but  remotely  connected  with 
my  purpose,  and  mentioned  them  merely  as  a  dra- 
matic form  of  religious  versification.  I  quote  from 
the  Coventry  Miracles,  better  known  than  either  of 
the  other  two  sets  in  existence,  the  Chester  Plays 
and  those  of  Widkirk  Abbey.  The  manuscript  from 
which  they  have  been  edited  by  Mr.  Halliwell,  one 
of  those  students  of  our  early  literature  to  whom 
we  are  endlessly  indebted  for  putting  valuable  things 
within  our  reach,  is  by  no  means  so  old  as  the  plays 
themselves  ;  it  bears  date  1468,  a  hundred  and  thirty 


24  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

years  after  they  appeared  in  their  English  dress. 
Their  language  is  considerably  modernized,  a  process 
constantly  going  on  where  transcription  is  the  means 
of  transmission — not  to  mention  that  the  actors 
would  of  course  make  many  changes  to  the  speech  of 
their  own  time.  I  shall  modernize  it  a  little  further, 
but  only  as  far  as  change  of  spelling  will  go. 

The  first  of  the  course  is  The  Creation.  God,  and 
angels,  and  Lucifer  appear.  That  God  should  here 
utter,  I  cannot  say  announce,  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity,  may  be  defended  on  the  ground  that  he 
does  so  in  a  soliloquy  ;  but  when  we  find  afterwards 
that  the  same  doctrine  is  one  of  the  subjects  upon 
which  the,  boy  Jesus  converses  with  the  doctors  in  the 
Temple,  we  cannot  help  remarking  the  strange  ana- 
chronism. Two  remarkable  lines  in  the  said  soliloquy 
are  these : 

And  all  that  ever  shall  have  being 
It  is  closed  in  my  mind. 

The  next  scene  is  the  Fall  of  Man,  which  is  full  of 
poetic  feeling  and  expression  both.  I  must  content 
myself  with  a  few  passages. 

Here  is  part  of  Eve's  lamentation,  when  she  is 
conscious  of  the  death  that  has  laid  hold  upon  her. 

Alas  that  ever  that  speech  was  spoken 

That  the  false  angel  said  unto  me  ! 
Alas  !  our  Maker's  bidding  is  broken, 

For  I  have  touched  his  own  dear  tree. 
Our  fleshly  eyes  are  all  unlokyn,  unlocked. 

Naked  for  sin  ourself  we  see  ; 
That  sorry  apple  that  we  have  sokyn  sucked. 

To  death  hath  brought  my  spouse  and  me. 


THE  FALL  OF  MAN. 


When  the  voice  of  God  is  heard,  saying, 

Adam,  that  with  my  hands  I  made, 

Where  art  thou  now  ?  what  hast  thou  wrought  ? 

Adam  replies,  in  two  lines,  containing  the  whole  truth 
of  man's  spiritual  condition  ever  since  : 

Ah,  Lord  !  for  sin  our  flowers  do  fade : 
I  hear  thy  voice,  but  I  see  thee  nought. 

The  vision  had  vanished,  but  the  voice  remained  ;  for 
they  that  hear  shall  live,  and  to  the  pure  in  heart  one 
day  the  vision  shall  be  restored,  for  "they  shall  see 
God."  There  is  something  wonderfully  touching  in 
the  quaint  simplicity  of  the  following  words  of  God  to 
the  woman : 

Unwise  woman,  say  me  why 
That  thou  hast  done  this  foul  folly, 
And  I  made  thee  a  great  lady, 
In  Paradise  for  to  play  ? 

As  they  leave  the  gates,  the  angel  with  the  flaming 
sword  ends  his  speech  thus  : 

This  bliss  I  spere  from  you  right  fast ;      bar. 

Herein  come  ye  no  more, 
Till  a  child  of  a  maid  be  born, 
And  upon  the  rood  rent  and  torn, 
To  save  all  that  ye  have  forlorn,  lost. 

Your  wealth  for  to  restore. 

Eve  laments  bitterly,  and  at  length  offers  her  throat 
to  her  husband,  praying  him  to  strangle  her : 

Now  stumble  we  on  stalk  and  stone  j 
My  wit  away  from  me  is  gone  j 
Writhe  on  to  my  neck-bone 

With  hardness  of  thine  hand. 
3 


26  ENGLAND  >S  ANTIPHON. 


Adam  replies — not  over  politely — 

Wife,  thy  wit  is  not  worth  a  rush  ; 

and  goes  on  to  make  what  excuse  for  themselves  he 
can  in  a  very  simple  and  touching  manner : 

Our  hap  was  hard,  our  wit  was  nesche,  soft,  weak,  still  in  use 

To  Paradise  when  we  were  brought :  [in  some  provinces. 

My  weeping  shall  be  long  fresh ; 

Short  liking  shall  be  long  bought.  pleasure. 

The  scene  ends  with  these  words  from  Eve  : 

Alas,  that  ever  we  wrought  this  sin  ! 
Our  bodily  sustenance  for  to  win, 
Ye  must  delve  and  I  shall  spin, 
In  care  to  lead  our  life. 

Cain  and  A  bel  follows ;  then  Noah's  Flood,  in  which 
God  says, 

They  shall  not  dread  the  flood's  flow  ; 

then  Abraham's  Sacrifice ;  then  Moses  and  the  Two 
Tables ;  then  The  Prophets,  each  of  whom  prophesies 
of  the  coming  Saviour ;  after  which  we  find  ourselves 
in  the  Apocryphal  Gospels,  in  the  midst  of  much 
nonsense  about  Anna  and  Joachim,  the  parents  of 
Mary,  about  Joseph  and  Mary  and  the  birth  of  Jesus, 
till  we  arrive  at  The  Shepherds  and  The  Magi,  The 
Purification,  The  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents,  The  Dis- 
puting in  the  Temple,  The  Baptism,  The  Temptation, 
and  The  Woman  taken  in  Adultery,  at  which  point 
I  pause  for  the  sake  of  the  remarkable  tradition 
embodied  in  the  scene — that  each  of  the  woman's 
accusers  thought  Jesus  was  writing  his  individual  sins 
on  the  ground.     While  he  is  writing  the  second  time, 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  TEMPLE.  27 

the  Pharisee,  the  Accuser,  and  the  Scribe,  who  have 
chiefly  sustained  the  dialogue  hitherto,  separate,  each 
going  into  a  different  part  of  the  Temple,  and  solilo- 
quize thus : 

Pharisee.     Alas  !  alas  !  I  am  ashamed  ! 

I  am  afeared  that  I  shall  die  ; 
All  my  sins  even  properly  named 

Yon  prophet  did  write  before  mine  eye. 
If  that  my  fellows  that  did  espy, 

They  will  tell  it  both  far  and  wide  ; 
My  sinful  living  if  they  outcry, 

I  wot  not  where  my  head  to  hide. 

Accuser.      Alas  !  for  sorrow  mine  heart  doth  bleed, 

All  my  sins  yon  man  did  write  ; 
If  that  my  fellows  to  them  took  heed, 

I  cannot  me  from  death  acquite. 
I  would  I  were  hid  somewhere  out  of  sight, 

That  men  should  me  nowhere  see  nor  know ; 
If  I  be  taken  I  am  aflyght  afraid. 

In  mekyl  shame  I  shall  be  throwe.  much. 

Scribe.  Alas  the  time  that  this  betyd !  happened. 

Right  bitter  care  doth  me  embrace. 
All  my  sins  be  now  unhid, 

Yon  man  before  me  them  all  doth  trace. 
If  I  were  once  out  of  this  place, 

To  suffer  death  great  and  vengeance  able, L 
I  will  never  come  before  his  face, 

Though  I  should  die  in  a  stable. 

Upon  this  follows  The  Raisi?ig  of  Lazarus ;  next 
The  Coimcil  of  the  Jews,  to  which  the  devil  appears  as 
a  Prologue,  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  the  fashion  of 
the  day,  which  he  sets  forth  minutely  enough  in  his 
speech  also.      The  Entry  into  Jerusalem ;    The  Last 

1  Able  to  suffer,  deserving,  subject  to,  obnoxious  to,  liable  to  death 
and  vengeance. 


28  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

Supper;  The  Betrayal ;  King  Herod ;  The  Trial  of 
Christ ;  Pilate's  Wife's  Dream  come  next ;  to  the 
subject  of  the  last  of  which  the  curious  but  generally 
accepted  origin  is  given,  that  it  was  inspired  by- 
Satan,  anxious  that  Jesus  should  not  be  slain,  because 
he  dreaded  the  mischief  he  would  work  when  he 
entered  Hades  or  Hell,  for  there  is  no  distinction 
between  them  either  here  or  in  the  Apocryphal 
Gospel  whence  the  Descent  into  Hell  is  taken.  Then 
follow  The  Crucifixion  and  The  Descent  into  Hell — 
often  called  the  Harrowing  of  Hell — that  is,  the 
making  war  upon  or  despoiling  of  hell}  for  which  the 
authority  is  a  passage  in  the  Gospel  of  Nicodemus,  full 
of  a  certain  florid  Eastern  grandeur.  I  need  hardly 
remind  my  readers  that  the  Apostles'  Creed,  as  it  now 
stands,  contains  the  same  legend  in  the  form  of  an 
article  of  faith.  The  allusions  to  it  are  frequent  in 
the  early  literature  of  Christendom. 

The  soul  of  Christ  comes  to  the  gates  of  hell,  and 
says : 

Undo  your  gates  of  sorwatorie  ;  place  of  sorrow. 

On  man's  soul  I  have  memorie  ; 
There  cometh  now  the  king  of  glory, 

These  gates  for  to  breke  ! 
Ye  devils  that  are  here  within, 
Hell  gates  ye  shall  unpin  ; 
I  shall  deliver  man's  kin — 

From  woe  I  will  them  wreke.  avenge. 


i  The  word  harry  is  still  used  in  Scotland,  but  only  in  regard  to  a 
bird's  nest. 


FIRST  REVIVAL  OF  LITER  A  TURE.  29 

Against  me  it  were  but  waste 
To  holdyn  or  to  standyn  fast ; 
Hell-lodge  may  not  last 

Against  the  king  of  glory. 
Thy  dark  door  down  I  throw  ; 
My  fair  friends  now  well  I  know  ; 
I  shall  them  bring,  reckoned  by  row, 

Out  of  their  purgatory  ! 

The  Burial ;  The  Resurrection ;  The  Three  Maries ; 
Christ  appearing  to  Mary  ;  The  Pilgrim  of  Emmaus  ; 
The  Ascension  ;  The  Descent  of  the  Holy  Ghost ;  The 
Assumption  of  the  Virgin  ;  and  Doomsday,  close  the 
series.  I  have  quoted  enough  to  show  that  these 
plays  must,  in  the  condition  of  the  people  to  whom 
they  were  presented,  have  had  much  to  do  with  their 
religious  education. 

This  fourteenth  century  was  a  wonderful  time  of 
outbursting  life.  Although  we  cannot  claim  the 
Miracles  as  entirely  English  products,  being  in  all  pro- 
bability translations  from  the  Norman-French,  yet 
the  fact  that  they  were  thus  translated  is  one  remark- 
able amongst  many  in  this  dawn  of  the  victory  of 
England  over  her  conquerors.  From  this  time,  English 
prospered  and  French  decayed.  Their  own  language 
was  now,  so  far,  authorized  as  the  medium  of  religious 
instruction  to  the  people,  while  a  similar  change  had 
passed  upon  processes  at  law;  and,  most  significant 
of  all,  the  greatest  poet  of  the  time,  and  one  of  the 
three  greatest  poets  as  yet  of  all  English  time,  wrote, 
although  a  courtier,  in  the  language  of  the  people. 
Before  selecting  some  of  Chaucer's  religious  verses, 
however,  I  must  speak  of  two  or  three  poems  by 
other  writers.  0* 


3o  ENGLAND'S  ANT1PH0N. 

The  first  of  these  is  The  Vision  of  William  con- 
cerning Piers  Plowman, — a  poem  of  great  influence 
in  the  same  direction  as  the  writings  of  Wycliffe.  It 
is  a  vision  and  an  allegory,  wherein  the  vices  of  the 
time,  especially  those  of  the  clergy,  are  unsparingly 
dealt  with.  Towards  the  close  it  loses  itself  in  a  meta- 
physical allegory  concerning  Dowel,  Dobet,  and  Do- 
best.1  I  do  not  find  much  poetry  in  it.  There  is 
more,  to  my  mind,  in  another  poem,  written  some 
thirty  or  forty  years  later,  the  author  of  which  is 
unknown,  perhaps  because  he  was  an  imitator  of 
William  Langland,  the  author  of  the  Vision.  It  is 
called  Pierce  the  Ploughman's  Crede.  Both  are  written 
after  the  fashion  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  and 
not  after  the  fashion  of  the  Anglo-Norman,  of  which 
distinction  a  little  more  presently.  Its  object  is  to 
contrast  the  life  and  character  of  the  four  orders 
of  friars  with  those  of  a  simple  Christian.  There 
is  considerable  humour  in  the  working  plan  of  the 
poem. 

A  certain  poor  man  says  he  has  succeeded  in 
learning  his  ABC,  his  Paternoster,  and  his  Ave 
Mary,  but  he  cannot,  do  what  he  will,  learn  his 
Creed.  He  sets  out,  therefore,  to  find  some  one 
whose  life,  according  with  his  profession,  may  give 
him  a  hope  that  he  will  teach  him  his  creed  aright. 
He  applies  to  the  friars.  One  after  another,  every 
order  abuses  the  other  ;  nor  this  only,  but  for  money 
offers  either  to  teach  him   his  creed,  or  to  absolve 

\  Do-well,  Do-better,  and  Do-best. 


PIERCE  THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  CREED.  31 

him  for  ignorance  of  the  same.  He  finds  no  helper 
until  he  falls  in  with  Pierce  the  Ploughman,  of  whose 
poverty  he  gives  a  most  touching  description.  I  shall, 
however,  only  quote  some  lines  of  The  Believe  as 
taught  by  the  Ploughman,  and  this  principally  to 
show  the  nature  of  the  versification : 

Leve  thou  on  our  Lord  God,  that  all  the  world  wroughte  ;  believe. 

Holy  heaven  upon  high  wholly  he  formed ; 

And  is  almighty  himself  over  all  his  workes  ; 

/vnd  wrought  as  his  will  was,  the  world  and  the  heaven  ; 

And  on  gentle  Jesus  Christ,  engendered  of  himselven, 

His  own  only  Son,  Lord  over  all  y-knowen. 

***** 
With  thorn  y-crowned,  crucified,  and  on  the  cross  died  ; 
And  sythen  his  blessed  body  was  in  a  stone  buried  ;  after  that. 

And  descended  adown  to  the  dark  helle, 

And  fetched  out  our  forefathers  ;  and  they  full  fain  weren.  glad. 

The  third  day  readily,  himself  rose  from  death, 
And  on  a  stone  there  he  stood,  he  stey  up  to  heaven,     where :  ascended. 

Here  there  is  no  rhyme.  There  is  measure — a 
dance-movement  in  the  verse  ;  and  likewise,  in  most  of 
the  lines,  what  was  essential  to  Anglo-Saxon  verse — 
three  or  more  words  beginning  with  the  same  sound. 
This  is  somewhat  of  the  nature  of  rhyme,  and  was  all 
our  Anglo-Saxon  forefathers  had  of  the  kind.  Their 
Norman  conquerors  brought  in  rhyme,  regularity 
of  measure,  and  division  into  stanzas,  with  many 
refinements  of  versification  now  regarded,  with  some 
justice  and  a  little  more  injustice,  as  peurilities. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  peculiar  rhythmic  move- 
ment of  the  Anglo-Saxon  verse  is  even  yet  the  most 
popular  of  all  measures.  Its  representative  is  now 
that   kind    of   verse  which  is  measured   not  by  the 


33  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

number  of  syllables,  but  by  the  number  of  accented 
syllables.  The  bulk  of  the  nation  is  yet  Anglo- 
Saxon  in  its  blind  poetic  tastes. 

Before  taking  my  leave  of  this  mode,  I  would  give 
one  fine  specimen  from  another  poem,  lately  printed, 
for  the  first  time  in  full,  from  Bishop  Percy's  manu- 
script. It  may  chronologically  belong  to  the  begin- 
ning of  the  next  century :  its  proper  place  in  my 
volume  is  here.  It  is  called  Death  and  Lijfe.  Like 
Langland's  poem,  it  is  a  vision  ;  but,  short  as  it  is  in 
comparison,  there  is  far  more  poetry  in  it  than  in 
Piers  Plowman.     Life  is  thus  described  : 

She  was  brighter  of  her  blee J  than  was  the  bright  sun  ; 
Her  rudd  2  redder  than  the  rose  that  on  the  rise  3  hangeth  ; 
Meekly  smiling  with  her  mouth,  and  merry  in  her  looks ; 
Ever  laughing  for  love,  as  she  like  would. 

Everything  bursts  into  life  and  blossom  at  her 
presence, 

And  the  grass  that  was  grey  greened  belive.       forthwith. 

But  the  finest  passage  is  part  of  Life's  answer  to 
Death,  who  has  been  triumphing  over  her : 

How  didst  thou  joust  at  Jerusalem,  with  Jesu,  my  Lord, 

Where  thou  deemedst  his  death  in  one  day's  time  !  judgedst. 

There  wast  thou  shamed  and  shent  and  stripped  for  aye  !    rebuked. 

When  thou  saw  the  king  come  with  the  cross  on  his  shoulder, 

On  the  top  of  Calvary  thou  earnest  him  against ; 

Like  a  traitor  untrue,  treason  thou  thought  ; 

Thou  laid  upon  my  liege  lord  loathful  hands, 

Sithen  beat  him  on  his  body,  and  buffeted  him  rightly,        then. 

Till  the  railing  red  blood  ran  from  his  sides  ;  pouring  down. 

1  Complexion.  2  Ruddiness — complexion.  8  Twig. 


DEATH  AND  LIFE.  33 

Sith  rent  him  on  the  rood  with  full  red  wounds  :  then. 

To  all  the  woes  that  him  wasted,  I  wot  not  few, 

Then  deemedst  (him)  to  have  been  dead,  and  dressed  for  ever. 

But,  Death,  how  didst  thou  then,  with  all  thy  derffe  words,  fierce. 

When  thou  pricked  at  his  pap  with  the  point  of  a  spear, 

And  touched  the  tabernacle  of  his  true  heart, 

Where  my  bower  was  bigged  to  abide  for  ever  ?  built. 

When  the  glory  of  his  Godhead  glinted  in  thy  face, 

Then  wast  thou  feared  of  this  fare  in  thy  false  heart ;  affair. 

Then  thou  hied  into  hell-hole  to  hide  thee  belive  ;  at  once. 

Thy  falchion  flew  out  of  thy  fist,  so  fast  thou  thee  hied  ; 

Thou  durst  not  blush  once  back,  for  better  or  worse,  look. 

But  drew  thee  clown  full  in  that  deep  hell, 

And  bade  them  bar  bigly  Belzebub  his  gates.  greatly,  strongly. 

Then  thou  told  them  tidings,  that  teened  them  sore  ;  grieved. 

How  that  king  came  to  kithen  his  strength,  show. 

And  how  she 1  had  beaten  thee  on  thy  bent,2  and  thy  brand  taken, 

With  everlasting  life  that  longed  him  till.  belonged  to  him. 

When  Life  has  ended  her  speech  to  Death,  she 
turns  to  her  own  followers  and  says  : — 

Therefore  be  not  abashed,  my  barnes  so  dear,  children. 

Of  her  falchion  so  fierce,  nor  of  her  fell  words. 

She  hath  no  might,  nay,  no  means,  no  more  you  to  grieve, 

Nor  on  your  comely  corses  to  clap  once  her  hands. 

I  shall  look  you  full  lively,  and  latch  full  well,    search  for :  lay  hold  of. 

And  keere  ye  further  of  this  kithe,3  above  the  clear  skies. 

I  now  turn  from  those  poems  of  national  scope  and 
wide  social  interest,  bearing  their  share,  doubtless,  in 
the  growth  of  the  great  changes  that  showed  them- 
selves at  length  more  than  a  century  after,  and  from 
the  poem  I  have  just  quoted  of  a  yet  wider  human 
interest,  to  one  of  another  tone,  springing  from  the 
grief  that  attends  love,  and  the  aspiration  born  of  the 

1  Life  (?).— I  think  she  should  be  he.  2  Field. 

3  "  Carry  you  beyond  this  region." 
S.L.  IV.  D 


34  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

grief.  It  is,  nevertheless,  wide  in  its  scope  as  the 
conflict  between  Death  and  Life,  although  dealing 
with  the  individual  and  not  with  the  race.  The 
former  poems  named  of  Pierce  Ploughman  are  the 
cry  of  John  the  Baptist  in  the  English  wilderness  ; 
this  is  the  longing  of  Hannah  at  home,  having  left 
her  little  son  in  the  temple.  The  latter  seems  a 
poorer  matter;  but  it  is  an  easier  thing  to  utter 
grand  words  of  just  condemnation,  than,  in  the  silence 
of  the  chamber,  or  with  the  well-known  household- 
life  around,  forcing  upon  the  consciousness  only  the 
law  of  things  seen,  to  regard  with  steadfastness  the 
blank  left  by  a  beloved  form,  and  believe  in  the 
unseen,  the  marvellous,  the  eternal.  In  the  midst 
of  "the  light  of  common  day,"  with  all  the  per- 
sistently common  things  pressing  upon  the  de- 
spairing heart,  to  hold  fast,  after  what  fashion  may 
be  possible,  the  vanishing  song  that  has  changed  its 
key,  is  indeed  a  victory  over  the  flesh,  however 
childish  the  forms  in  which  the  faith  may  embody 
itself,  however  weak  the  logic  with  which  it  may 
defend  its  intrenchments. 

The  poem  which  has  led  me  to  make  these  re- 
marks is  in  many  respects  noteworthy.  It  is  very 
different  in  style  and  language  from  any  I  have 
yet  given.  There  was  little  communication  to  blend 
the  different  modes  of  speech  prevailing  in  different 
parts  of  the  country.  It  belongs,1  according  to 
students  of   English,  to  the   Midland   dialect  of  the 

1  For  the  knowledge  of  this  poem  I  am  indebted  to  the  Early  Eng- 
lish Text  Society,  now  printing  so  many  valuable  manuscripts. 


THE  PEARL. 


35 


fourteenth  century.  The  author  is  beyond  con- 
jecture. 

It  is  not  merely  the  antiquity  of  the  language  that 
causes  its  difficulty,  but  the  accumulated  weight  of 
artistically  fantastic  and  puzzling  requirements  which 
the  writer  had  laid  upon  himself  in  its  composition. 
The  nature  of  these  I  shall  be  enabled  to  show  by 
printing  the  first  twelve  lines  almost  as  they  stand 
in  the  manuscript. 

Perle  plesaunte  to  prynces  paye, 
To  clanly  clos  in  golde  so  clere ! 
Oute  of  oryent  I  hardyly  saye, 
Ne  proued  I  neuer  her  precios  pere ; 
So  round e,  so  reken  in  vche  araye, 
So  smal,  so  smothe  her  sydes  were  ! 
Quere-so-euer  I  iugged  gemmes  gaye, 
I  sette  hyr  sengeley  in  synglure : 
Alias  !  I  leste  hyr  in  on  erbere, 
Thurh  gresse  to  grounde  hit  fro  me  yot ; 
I  dewyne  for-dolked  of  luf  daungere, 
Of  that  pryuy  perle  with-outen  spot. 

Kere  it  will  be  observed  that  the  Norman  mode — 
that  of  rhymes — is  employed,  and  that  there  is  a  far 
more  careful  measure  in  the  line  that  is  found  in  the 
poem  last  quoted.  But  the  rhyming  is  carried  to 
such  an  excess  as  to  involve  the  necessity  of  constant 
invention  of  phrase  to  meet  its  requirements — a 
fertile  source  of  obscurity.  The  most  difficult  form 
of  stanza  in  respect  of  rhyme  now  in  use  is  the 
Spenserian,  in  which,  consisting  of  nine  lines,  four 
words  rhyme  together,  three  words,  and  two  words. 
But  the  stanza  in  the  poem  before  us  consists  of 
twelve   lines,   six   of  which,   two   of  which,   four  of 

D  2 


36  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

which,  rhyme  together.  This  we  should  count  hard 
enough  ;  but  it  does  not  nearly  exhaust  the  tyranny 
of  the  problem  the  author  has  undertaken.  I  have 
already  said  that  one  of  the  essentials  of  the  poetic 
form  in  Anglo-Saxon  was  the  commencement  of 
three  or  more  words  in  the  line  with  the  same 
sound :  this  peculiarity  he  has  exaggerated :  every  line 
has  as  many  words  as  possible  commencing  with  the 
same  sound.  In  the  first  line,  for  instance, — and  it 
must  be  remembered  that  the  author's  line  is  much 
shorter  than  the  Anglo-Saxon  line, — there  are  four 
words  beginning  with  p;  in  the  second,  three  begin- 
ning with  cly  and  so  on.  This,  of  course,  necessitates 
much  not  merely  of  circumlocution,  but  of  con- 
trivance, involving  endless  obscurity. 

He  has  gone  on  to  exaggerate  the  peculiarities  of 
Norman  verse  as  well ;  but  I  think  it  better  not  to 
run  the  risk  of  wearying  my  reader  by  pointing  out 
more  of  his  oddities.  I  will  now  betake  myself  to 
what  is  far  more  interesting  as  well  as  valuable. 

The  poem  sets  forth  the  grief  and  consolation  of  a 
father  who  has  lost  his  daughter.  It  is  called  The 
Pearl.  Here  is  a  literal  rendering,  line  for  line,  into 
modern  English  words,  not  modern  English  speech, 
of  the  stanza  which  I  have  already  given  in  its  original 
form : 

Pearl  pleasant  to  prince's  pleasure, 
Most  cleanly  closed  in  gold  so  clear ! 
Out  of  the  Orient,  I  boldly  say, 
I  never  proved  her  precious  equal ; 
So  round,  so  beautiful  in  every  point ! 
So  small,  so  smooth,  her  sides  were  ! 


THE  PEARL.  ^ 


Wheresoever  I  judged  gemmes  gay 

I  set  her  singly  in  singleness. 

Alas  !  I  lost  her  in  an  arbour  ; 

Through  the  grass  to  the  ground  it  from  me  went. 

I  pine,  sorely  wounded  by  dangerous  love 

Of  that  especial  pearl  without  spot. 

The  father  calls  himself  a  jeweller ;  the  pearl  is  his 
daughter.  He  has  lost  the  pearl  in  the  grass  ;  it  has 
gone  to  the  ground,  and  he  cannot  find  it ;  that  is, 
his  daughter  is  dead  and  buried.  Perhaps  the  most 
touching  line  is  one  in  which  he  says  to  the  grave : 

O  moul,  thou  marrez  a  myry  mele. 
(O  mould,  thou  marrest  a  merry  talk.) 

The  poet,  who  is  surely  the  father  himself,  cannot 
always  keep  up  the  allegory ;  his  heart  burns  holes  in 
it  constantly ;  at  one  time  he  says  she,  at  another 
it,  and,  between  the  girl  and  the  pearl,  the  poem  is 
bewildered.  But  the  allegory  helps  him  out  with 
what  he  means  notwithstanding ;  for  although  the 
highest  aim  of  poetry  is  to  say  the  deepest  things 
in  the  simplest  manner,  humanity  must  turn  from 
mode  to  mode,  and  try  a  thousand,  ere  it  finds  the 
best.  The  individual,  in  his  new  endeavour  to  make 
"the  word  cousin  to  the  deed,"  must  take  up  the 
forms  his  fathers  have  left- him,  and  add  to  them,  if 
he  may,  new  forms  of  his  own.  In  both  the  great 
revivals  of  literature,  the  very  material  of  poetry  was 
allegory. 

The  father  falls  asleep  on  his  child's  grave,  and  has 
a  dream,  or  rather  a  vision,  of  a  country  where  every- 
thing— after  the  childish  imagination  which  invents 


38  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

differences  instead  of  discovering  harmonies — is  super- 
naturally  beautiful  :  rich  rocks  with  a  gleaming  glory, 
crystal  cliffs,  woods  with  blue  trunks  and  leaves  of 
burnished  silver,  gravel  of  precious  Orient  pearls,  form 
the  landscape,  in  which  are  delicious  fruits,  and  birds 
of  flaming  colours  and  sweet  songs :  its  loveliness  no 
man  with  a  tongue  is  worthy  to  describe.  He  comes 
to  the  bank  of  a  river : 

Swinging  sweet  the  water  did  sweep 
With  a  whispering  speech  flowing  adown  ; 
(Wyth  a  rownande  rourde  raykande  aryght) 

and  the  stones  at  the  bottom  were  shining  like  stars. 
It  is  a  noteworthy  specimen  of  the  mode  in  which 
the  imagination  works  when  invention  is  dissociated 
from  observation  and  faith.  But  the  sort  of  way  in 
which  some  would  improve  the  world  now,  if  they 
might,  is  not  so  very  far  in  advance  of  this  would-be 
glorification  of  Nature.  The  barest  heath  and  sky 
have  lovelinesses  infinitely  beyond  the  most  gorgeous 
of  such  phantasmagoric  idealization  of  her  beauties  ; 
and  the  most  wretched  condition  of  humanity  strug- 
gling for  existence  contains  elements  of  worth  and 
future  development  inappreciable  by  the  philanthropy 
that  would  elevate  them  by  cultivating  their  self-love. 
At  the  foot  of  a  crystal  cliff,  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river,  which  he  cannot  cross,  he  sees  a  maiden 
sitting,  clothed  and  crowned  with  pearls,  and  wearing 
one  pearl  of  surpassing  wonder  and  spotlessness 
upon  her  breast.  I  now  make  the  spelling  and  forms 
of  the  words  as  modern  as  I  may,  altering  the  text 
no  further. 


THE  PEARL. 


39 


"O  pearl,"  quoth  I,  "  in  perles  pight, 
Art  thou  my  pearl  that  I  have  plained  ? 
Regretted  by  myn  one,  on  night  ? 
Much  longing  have  I  for  thee  layned 
Since  into  grass  thou  me  a-glyghte  ; 
Pensive,  payred,  I  am  for-pained,1 
And  thou  in  a  life  of  liking  light 
In  Paradise-earth,  of  strife  unstrained ! 
What  wyrde  hath  hither  my  jewel  vayned, 
And  done  me  in  this  del  and  great  danger  ? 
Fro  we  in  twain  were  towen  and  twayned, 
I  have  been  a  joyless  jeweller." 

That  jewel  then  in  gemmes  gente, 
Vered  up  her  vyse  with  even  gray, 
Set  on  her  crown  of  pearl  orient, 
And  soberly  after  then  gan  'she  say  : 

"  Sir,  ye  have  your  tale  myse-tente, 
To  say  your  pearl  is  all  away, 
That  is  in  coffer  so  comely  clente 
As  in  this  garden  gracious  gay, 
Herein  to  lenge  for  ever  and  play, 
There  mys  nor  mourning  come  never — here, 
Here  was  a  forser  for  thee  in  faye, 
If  thou  wert  a  gentle  jeweller. 

"  But  jeweller  gente,  if  thou  shalt  lose 
Thy  joy  for  a  gem  that  thee  was  lef, 
Me  thinks  thee  put  in  a  mad  purpose, 
And  busiest  thee  about  a  reason  bref. 
For  that  thou  lostest  was  but  a  rose, 
That  flowered  and  failed  as  kynd  hit  gef. 
Now  through  kind  of  the  chest  that  it  gan  close, 
To  a  pearl  of  price  it  is  put  in  pref;2 
And  thou  hast  called  thy  wyrde  a  thef, 
That  ought  of  nought  has  made  thee,  clear  ! 
Thou  blamest  the  bote  of  thy  mischef  : 
Thou  art  no  kynde  jeweller." 


pitched,  dressed. 
mourned. 

by  myself. 

hidden. 

didst  glide  from  me. 

pined  away. 

bright  pleasure. 

untortured  with  strife. 

destiny:  carried  off. 

sorrow. 

since :  pulled :  divided. 

gracious, 
turned :  face. 


mistaken. 

clenched. 

abide. 

where:  wrong. 

strong-box :  faith. 

had  left  thee. 

poor  object. 

nature  gave  it. 
nature. 

doom,  fate:  theft, 
something  of  nothing, 
remedy:  hurt, 
natural,  reasonable. 


1  The  for  here  is  only  an  intensive. 

2  Prep "is  proof     Put  in  pref  stems  to  stand  for  something  more  than 
being  tested.     Might  it  not  mean  proved  to  be  a  pearl  of  price  ? 


40  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

When  the  father  pours  out  his  gladness  at  the 
sight  of  her,  she  rejoins  in  these  words  : 

' '  I  hold  that  jeweller  little  to  praise 

That  loves  well  that  he  sees  with  eye  ; 

And  much  to  blame,  and  uncortoyse,  unconrteous. 

That  leves  our  Lord  would  make  a  lie,  believes. 

That  lelly  hyghte  your  life  to  raise  who  truly  promised. 

Though  fortune  did  your  flesh  to  die  ;  caused. 

To  set  his  words  full  westernays1 

That  love  no  thing  but  ye  it  syghe !  see. 

And  that  is  a  point  of  surquedrie,  presumption. 

That  each  good  man  may  evil  beseem,  ill  become. 

To  leve  no  tale  be  true  to  tryghe,  trust  in. 

But  that  his  one  skill  may  deme. "  2 

Much  conversation  follows,  the  glorified  daughter 
rebuking  and  instructing  her  father.  He  prays  for  a 
sight  of  the  heavenly  city  of  which  she  has  been 
speaking,  and  she  tells  him  to  walk  along  the  bank 
until  he  comes  to  a  hill.  In  recording  what  he  saw 
from  the  hill,  he  follows  the  description  of  the  New 
Jerusalem  given  in  the  Book  of  the  Revelation.  He 
sees  the  Lamb  and  all  his  company,  and  with  them 
again  his  lost  Pearl.  But  it  was  not  his  prince's  plea- 
sure that  he  should  cross  the  stream  ;  for  when  his  eyes 
and  ears  were  so  filled  with  delight  that  he  could  no 
longer  restrain  the  attempt,  he  awoke  out  of  his  dream. 

My  head  upon  that  hill  was  laid 

There  where  my  pearl  to  grounde  strayed. 

I  wrestled  and  fell  in  great  affray,  fear. 

And  sighing  to  myself  I  said, 

"  Now  all  be  to  that  prince's  paye."  pleasure. 

1  A  word  acknowledged  to  be  obscure.     Mr.  Morris  suggests  on  tht 
left  hand,  as  unbelieved. 

2  "  Except  that  which  his  sole  wit  may  judge." 


CHAUCER'S  GOOD  COUNSEL.  41 

After  this,  he  holds  him  to  that  prince's  will,  and 
yearns  after  no  more  than  he  grants  him. 

"  As  in  water  face  is  to  face,  so  the  heart  of  man." 
Out  of  the  far  past  comes  the  cry  of  bereavement 
mingled  with  the  prayer  for  hope :  we  hear,  and  lo  ! 
it  is  the  cry  and  the  prayer  of  a  man  like  ourselves. 

From  the  words  of  the  greatest  man  of  his  age, 
let  me  now  gather  two  rich  blossoms  of  utterance, 
presenting  an  embodiment  of  religious  duty  and 
aspiration,  after  a  very  practical  fashion.  I  refer  to 
two  short  lyrics,  little  noted,  although  full  of  wisdom 
and  truth.  They  must  be  accepted  as  the  conclusions 
of  as  large  a  knowledge  of  life  in  diversified  mode  as 
ever  fell  to  the  lot  of  man. 


GOOD  COUNSEL  OF  CHAUCER. 

Fly  from  the  press,  and  dwell  with  soothfastness  ;  truthfulness. 

Suffice  x  unto  thy  good,  though  it  be  small ; 

For  hoard  hath  hate,  and  climbing  tickleness  ;2 

Praise  hath  envy,  and  weal  is  blent  over  all.3 

Savour4  no  more  than  thee  behove  shall. 

Rede  well  thyself  that  other  folk  shalt  rede  ;  counsel. 

And  truth  thee  shall  deliver — it  is  no  drede.  there  is  no  doubt. 

Paine  thee  not  each  crooked  to  redress,  every  crooked  thing. 

In  trust  of  her  that  turneth  as  a  ball :  Fortune. 

Great  rest  standeth  in  little  busi-ness. 

Beware  also  to  spurn  against  a  nail ;  nail — to  kick  against 

Strive  not  as  doth  a  crocke  with  a  wall.  [the pricks. 

Deme  thyself  that  demest  others'  deed ;  judge. 

And  truth  thee  shall  deliver— it  is  no  drede. 

1  "  Be  equal  to  thy  possessions  :  "  "  fit  thy  desires  to  thy  means." 

2  "Ambition  has  uncertainty."     We  use  the  word  ticklish  still. 

3  "  Is  mingled  everywhere." 

4  To  relish,  to  like.     "  Desire  no  more  than  is  fitting  for  thee." 

4* 


42  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

That  thee  is  sent  receive  in  buxomness  :  submission. 

The  wrestling  of  this  world  asketh  a  fall.         tempts  destruction. 

Here  is  no  home,  here  is  but  wilderness  : 

Forth,  pilgrim,  forth  ! — beast,  out  of  thy  stall ! 

Look  up  on  high,  and  thanke  God  of  i  all. 

Waive  thy  lusts,  and  let  thy  ghost 2  thee  lead, 

And  truth  thee  shall  deliver— it  is  no  drede. 

This  needs  no  comment.  Even  the  remark  that 
every  line  is  worth  meditation  may  well  appear 
superfluous.  One  little  fact  only  with  regard  to  the 
rhymes,  common  to  this  and  the  next  poem,  and 
usual  enough  in  Norman  verse,  may  be  pointed  out, 
namely,  that  every  line  in  the  stanza  ends  with  the 
same  rhyme-sound  as  the  corresponding  line  in  each 
of  the  other  stanzas.  A  reference  to  either  of  the 
poems  will  at  once  show  what  I  mean. 

The  second  is  superior,  inasmuch  as  it  carries  one 
thought  through  the  three  stanzas.  It  is  entitled 
A  Balade  made  by  Chaucer,  teaching  what  is  gentil- 
nesse,  or  whom  is  worthy  to  be  called gentill. 

The  first  stock-father  of  gentleness —  ancestor  of  the  race  of 

What  man  desireth  gentle  for  to  be  {the  gentle. 

Must  follow  his  trace,  and  all  his  wittes  dress         track,  footsteps :  apply. 
Virtue  to  love  and  vices  for  to  flee ; 

For  unto  virtue  longeth  dignity,  belongeth. 

And  not  the  reverse  falsely  dare  »I  deem,a 

All  wear  he  mitre,  crown,  or  diadem.  although  he  wear. 

The  first  stock  was  full  of  righteousness  ;  the  progenitor. 

True  of  his  word,  sober,  piteous,  and  free  ; 
Clean  of  his  ghost,  and  loved  busi-ness,  pure  in  his  spirit. 

Against  the  vice  of  sloth  in  honesty ; 

i  For. 

2  "  Let  thy  spiritual  and  not  thine  animal  nature  guide  thee." 

3  "And  I  dare  not  falsely  judge  the  reverse." 


WHAT  IS  GENTLENESS. 


And  but  his  heir  love  virtue  as  did  he, 
He  is  not  gentle,  though  he  rich  seem, 
All  wear  he  mitre,  crown,  or  diadem. 

Vicesse  may  well  be  heir  to  old  Richesse, 

But  there  may  no  man,  as  men  may  well  see, 

Bequeath  his  heir  his  virtue's  nobleness ; 
That  is  appropried  unto  no  degree, 
But  to  the  first  father  in  majesty, 

That  maketh  his  heires  them  that  him  queme, 

All  wear  he  mitre,  crown,  or  diadem. 


43 


except. 


Vice:  Riches. 


rank. 


please  him. 


I  can  come  to  no  other  conclusion  than  that  by  the 
first  stock-father  Chaucer  means  our  Lord  Jesus. 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE    FIFTEENTH    CENTURY. 


After  the  birth  of  a  Chaucer,  a  Shakspere,  or  a 
Milton,  it  is  long  before  the  genial  force  of  a  nation 
can  again  culminate  in  such  a  triumph :  time  is  required 
for  the  growth  of  the  conditions.  Between  the  birth 
of  Chaucer  and  the  birth  of  Shakspere,  his  sole 
equal,  a  period  of  more  than  two  centuries  had  to 
elapse.  It  is  but  small  compensation  for  this,  that 
the  more  original,  that  is  simple,  natural,  and  true 
to  his  own  nature  a  man  is,  the  more  certain  is  he  to 
have  a  crowd  of  imitators.  I  do  not  say  that  such 
are  of  no  use  in  the  world.  They  do  not  indeed 
advance  art,  but  they  widen  the  sphere  of  its 
operation ;  for  many  will  talk  with  the  man  who 
know  nothing  of  the  master.  Too  often  intending 
but  their  own  glory,  they  point  the  way  to  the 
source  of  it,  and  are  straightway  themselves  for- 
gotten. 

Very  little  of  the  poetry  of  the  fifteenth  century  is 
worthy  of  a  different  fate  from  that  which  has  befallen 
it.  Possibly  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  may  in  some 
measure  account  for  the  barrenness  of  the  time  ;  but 


JOHN  L  YDGA  TE.  45 

I  do  not  think  they  will  explain  it.  In  the  midst  of 
the  commotions  of  the  seventeenth  century  we  find 
Milton,  the  only  English  poet  of  whom  we  are  yet 
sure  as  worthy  of  being  named  with  Chaucer  and 
Shakspere. 

It  is  in  quality,  however,  and  not  in  quantity  that 
the  period  is  deficient.  It  had  a  good  many  writers 
of  poetry,  some  of  them  prolific.  John  Lydgate,  the 
monk  of  Bury,  a  great  imitator  of  Chaucer,  was  the 
principal  of  these,  and  wrote  an  enormous  quantity 
of  verse.  We  shall  find  for  our  use  enough  as  it 
were  to  keep  us  alive  in  passing  through  this  desert  to 
the  Paradise  of  the  sixteenth  century — a  land  indeed 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey.  For  even  in  the  desert 
of  the  fifteenth  are  spots  luxuriant  with  the  rich 
grass  of  language,  although  they  greet  the  eye 
with  few  flowers  of  individual  thought  or  graphic 
speech. 

Rather  than  give  portions  of  several  of  Lydgate's 
poems,  I  will  give  one  entire — the  best  I  know.  It 
is  entitled,  Thonke  God  of  alle} 

Thank  God  for  All. 

By  a  way  wandering  as  I  went, 

Well  sore  I  sorrowed,  for  sighing  sad  ; 

Of  hard  haps  that  I  had  hent 

Mourning  me  made  almost  mad  ;2 

1  A  poem  so  like  this  that  it  may  have  been  written  immediately 
after  reading  it,  is  attributed  to  Robert  Henryson,  the  Scotch  poet.  It 
has  the  same  refrain  to  every  verse  as  Lydgate's. 

2  "  Mourning  for  mishaps  that  T  had  caught  made  me  almost  mad." 


46 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Till  a  letter  all  one  me  lad,1 
That  well  was  written  on  a  wall, 

A  blissful  word  that  on  I  rad,2 
That  alway  said,  '  Thank  God  for3  all.' 

And  yet  I  read  furthermore  * — 

Full  good  intent  I  took  there  till :" 
Christ  may  well  your  state  restore ; 

Nought  is  to  strive  against  his  will  ; 

He  may  us  spare  and  also  spill  : 
Think  right  well  we  be  his  thrall. 

What  sorrow  we  suffer,  loud  or  still, 
Alway  thank  God  for  all. 

Though  thou  be  both  blind  and  lame, 
Or  any  sickness  be  on  thee  set, 

Thou  think  right  well  it  is  no  shame — 
The  grace  of  God  it  hath  thee  gret.6 
In  sorrow  or  care  though  ye  be  knit, 

And  worldes  weal  be  from  thee  fall, 
I  cannot  say  thou  mayst  do  bet, 

But  alway  thank  God  for  all. 

Though  thou  wield  this  world's  good, 

And  royally  lead  thy  life  in  rest, 
Well  shaped  of  bone  and  blood, 

None  the  like  by  east  nor  west ; 

Think  God  thee  sent  as  him  lest  j 
Riches  turneth  as  a  ball  ; 

In  all  manner  it  is  the  best 
Alway  to  thank  God  for  all. 

If  thy  good  beginneth  to  pass, 

And  thou  wax  a  poor  man, 
Take  good  comfort  and  bear  good  face, 

And  think  on  him  that  all  good  wan 


it  is  useless. 


slaves. 


think  thou. 

snared. 

fallen. 

better. 


as  it  pleased  him. 
in  every  condition. 


did; 


1  "Led  me  all  one  :"  "brought  me  back  to  peace,  unity,  harmony. "(?) 

2  "That  I  read  on  (it)." 

3  Of  in  the  original,  as  in  the  title. 


4  Does  this  mean  by  contemplation  on  it  ? 

»  "I  paid  good  attention  to  it." 

6  "  Greeted  thee  " — in  the  very  affliction. 


THANK  GOD  FOR  ALL.  47 

Christ  himself  forsooth  began — 
He  may  renew  both  bower  and  hall  : 

No  better  counsel  I  ne  lean  am  capable  of. 

But  alway  thank  God  for  all. 

Think  on  Job  that  was  so  rich  : 

He  waxed  poor  from  day  to  day  ; 
His  beastes  died  in  each  ditch ; 

His  cattle  vanished  all  away ; 

He  was  put  in  poor  array, 
Neither  in  purple  nor  in  pall, 

But  in  simple  weed,  as  clerkes  say,    clothes :  learned  men. 
And  alway  he  thanked  God  for  all. 

For  Christes  love  so  do  we  j1 

He  may  both  give  and  take  j 
In  what  mischief  that  we  in  be,  whatever  trouble  we 

He  is  mighty  enough  our  sorrow  to  slake.  [be  in. 

Full  good  amends  he  will  us  make, 
And  we  to  him  cry  or  call :  if 

What  grief  or  woe  that  do  thee  thrall,2 
Yet  alway  thank  God  for  all. 

Though  thou  be  in  prison  cast, 

Or  any  distress  men  do  thee  bede,  °ffer' 

For  Christes  love  yet  be  steadfast, 

And  ever  have  mind  on  thy  creed  ; 

Think  he  faileth  us  never  at  need, 
The  dearworth  duke  that  deem  us  shall ;» 

When  thou  art  sorry,  thereof  take  heed,4 
And  alway  thank  God  for  all. 

Though  thy  friendes  from  thee  fail, 

And  death  by  rene  hend  5  their  life, 
Why  shouldest  thou  then  weep  or  wail  ? 

It  is  nought  against  God  to  strive  :  it  is  useless. 

1  "  For  Christ's  love  let  us  do  the  same." 

2  "  Whatever  grief  or  woe  enslaves  thee."     But  thrall  is  a  blunder,  for 
the  word  ought  to  have  rhymed  with  make. 

3  "  The  precious  leader  that  shall  judge  us." 

4  "  When  thou  art  in  sorry  plight,  think  of  this." 

6  "  And  death,  beyond  renewal,  lay  hold  upon  their  life." 


48  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Himself  maked  both  man  and  wife — 
To  his  bliss  he  bring  us  all  :  may  he  bring. 

However  thou  thole  or  thrive,  suffer. 

Alway  thank  God  for  all. 

What  diverse  sonde1  that  God  thee  send, 

i  I  ere  or  in  any  other  place, 
Take  it  with  good  intent ; 

The  sooner  God  will  send  his  grace. 

Though  thy  body  be  brought  full  base,  low. 

Let  not  thy  heart  adown  fall, 

But  think  that  God  is  where  he  was, 
And  alway  thank  God  for  all. 

Though  thy  neighbour  have  world  at  will, 

And  thou  far'st  not  so  well  as  he, 
Be  not  so  mad  to  think  him  ill,  wish.  (?) 

For  his  wealth  envious  to  be  : 

The  king  of  heaven  himself  can  see 
Who  takes  his  sonde,2  great  or  small ; 

Thus  each  man  in  his  degree, 
I  rede  thanke  God  for  all.  counsel. 

For  Cristes  love,  be  not  so  wild, 

But  rule  thee  by  reason  within  and  without ; 
And  take  in  good  heart  and  mind 

The  sonde  that  God  sent  all  about ;  the  gospel.  (?) 

Then  dare  I  say  with  -«Mten  doubt, 
That  in  heaven  is  made  thy  stall.  place,  seat,  room. 

Rich  and  poor  that  low  will  lowte,  bow. 

Alway  thank  God  for  all. 

I  cannot  say  there  is  much  poetry  in  this,  but  there 
is  much  truth  and  wisdom.  There  is  the  finest 
poetry,  however,  too,  in  the  line — I  give  it  now 
letter  for  letter: — 

But  think  that  God  ys  ther  he  was. 

1  Sending,  message:  "whatever  varying  decree  God  sends  thee." 
*  "  Receives  his  message  :"  "  accepts  his  will." 


OUR  DUTY  TO  JESUS.  49 

There  is  poetry  too  in  the  line,  if  I  interpret  it  rightly 
as  intending  the  gospel — 

The  sonde  that  God  sent  al  abowte. 

I  shall  now  make  a  few  extracts  from  poems  of  the 
same  century  whose  authors  are  unknown.1  A  good 
many  such  are  extant.  With  regard  to  the  similarity 
of  those  I  choose,  I  would  remark,  that  not  only  will 
the  poems  of  the  same  period  necessarily  resemble 
each  other,  but,  where  the  preservation  of  any  has 
depended  upon  the  choice  and  transcription  of  one 
person,  these  will  in  all  probability  resemble  each 
other  yet  more.  Here  are  a  few  verses  from  a  hymn 
headed  The  Sweetness  of  Jesus : — 


If  I  for  kindness  should  love  my  kin,  for     natural    reasons. 

Then  me  thinketh  in  my  thought  [Kind  is  nature. 

By  kindly  skill  I  should  begin  by  natural  judgment. 

At  him  that  hath  me  made  of  nought ; 
His  likeness  he  set  my  soul  within, 

And  all  this  world  for  me  hath  wrought ; 
As  father  he  fondid  my  love  to  win,  set  about. 

For  to  heaven  he  hath  me  brought. 

Our  brother  and  sister  he  is  by  skill,  reason. 

For  he  so  said,  and  lerid  us  that  lore,  taught. 
That  whoso  wrought  his  Father's  will, 

Brethren  and  sisters  to  him  they  wore.  were. 

My  kind  also  he  took  ther-tille  ;  my  nature  also  he  took 

Full  truly  trust  I  him  therefore  [for  that  purpose. 

That  he  will  never  let  me  spill,  perish. 

But  with  his  mercy  salve  my  sore. 


1  Recently  published  by  the  Early  English  Text  Society. 
s.L.  iv.  5 


So  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

With  lovely  lore  his  works  to  fill,  fulfil. 

Well  ought  I,  wretch,  if  I  were  kind —      natural. 
Night  and  day  to  work  his  will, 

And  ever  have  that  Lord  in  mind. 
But  ghostly  foes  grieve  me  ill,  spiritual. 

And  my  frail  flesh  maketh  me  blind; 
Therefore  his  mercy  I  take  me  till,  betake  me  to. 

For  better  bote  can  I  none  find.  aid. 

In  my  choice  of  stanzas  I  have  to  keep  in  view 
some  measure  of  completeness  in  the  result.  These 
poems,  however,  are  mostly  very  loose  in  structure. 
This,  while  it  renders  choice  easy,  renders  closeness 
of  unity  impossible. 

From  a  poem  headed — again  from  the  last  line  of 
each  stanza — Be  my  comfort,  Christ  Jesus,  I  choose 
the  following  four,  each  possessing  some  remarkable 
flavour,  tone,  or  single  touch.  Note  the  alliteration 
in  the  lovely  line,  beginning  "Bairn  y-born."  The 
whole  of  the  stanza  in  which  we  find  it,  sounds  so 
strangely  fresh  in  the  midst  of  its  antiquated  tones, 
that  we  can  hardly  help  asking  whether  it  can  be 
only  the  quaintness  of  the  expression  that  makes  the 
feeling  appear  more  real,  or  whether  in  very  truth 
men  were  not  in  those  days  nearer  in  heart,  as  well 
as  in  time,  to  the  marvel  of  the  Nativity. 

In  the  next  stanza,  how  oddly  the  writer  forgets 
that  Jesus  himself  was  a  Jew,  when,  embodying  the 
detestation  of  Christian  centuries  in  one  line,  he  says, 

And  tormented  with  many  a  Jew  ! 

In  the  third  stanza,  I  consider  the  middle  quatrain, 
that  is,  the  four  lines  beginning  u  Out  of  this  world," 
perfectly  grand. 


BE  MY  COMFORT,  CHRIST  JESUS. 


5i 


The  oddness  of  the  last  line  but  one  of  the  fourth 
stanza  is  redeemed  by  the  wonderful  reality  it  gives 
to  the  faith  of  the  speaker  :  "  See  my  sorrow,  and 
say  Ho  ! "  stopping  it  as  one  would  call  after  a  man 
and  stop  him. 


Jesus,  thou  art  wisdom  of  wit, 

Of  thy  Father  full  of  might ! 
Man's  soul — to  save  it, 

In  poor  apparel  thou  wert  pight. 
Jesus,  thou  wert  in  cradle  knit, 

In  weed  wrapped  both  day  and  night  j 
In  Bethlehem  born,  as  the  gospel  writ,  , 

With  angels'  song,  and  heaven-light. 
Bairn  y-born  of  a  beerde  bright,1 

Full  courteous  was  thy  comely  cus  : 
Through  virtue  of  that  sweet  light, 

So  be  my  comfort,  Christ  Jesus. 

Jesus,  that  wert  of  yearis  young, 

Fair  and  fresh  of  hide  and  hue, 
When  thou  wert  in  thraldom  throng, 

And  tormented  with  many  a  Jew, 
When  blood  and  water  were  out-wrung, 

For  beating  was  thy  body  blue ; 
As  a  clot  of  clay  thou  wert  for-clong, 

So  dead  in  trough  then  men  thee  threw. 
But  grace  from  thy  grave  grew  : 

Thou  rose  up  quick  comfort  to  us. 
For  her  love  that  this  counsel  knew, 

So  be  my  comfort,  Christ  Jesus. 

Jesus,  soothfast  God  and  man, 
Two  kinds  knit  in  one  person, 

The  wonder-work  that  thou  began 
Thou  hast  fulfilled  in  flesh  and  bone. 


understanding. 

pitched,  placed,  dressed. 
originally,  dress  of  any  kind. 

kiss. 


driven. 


shrunk, 
coffin. 

living. 


1  "Child  born  of  a  bright  lady. "     Bird,  herd,  brid,  burd.,  means  lady 
originally  :  thence  comes  our  bride. 

E  2 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Out  of  this  world  wightly  thou  wan,          thou  didst  win,  or  make  thy 

Lifting  up  thyself  alone  ;  [way,  powerfully. 

For  mightily  thou  rose  and  ran 

Straight  unto  thy  Father  on  throne. 
Now  dare  man  make  no  more  moan — 

For  man  it  is  thou  wroughtest  thus, 
And  God  with  man  is  made  at  one  ; 

So  be  my  comfort,  Christ  Jesus. 

Jesu,  my  sovereign  Saviour, 

Almighty  God,  there  ben  no  mo :  there  are  no  more — thou  art 

Christ,  thou  be  my  governor  ;  [all  in  all.{1) 

Thy  faith  let  me  not  fallen  fro.  from 

Jesu,  my  joy  and  my  succour, 

In  my  body  and  soul  also, 
God,  thou  be  my  strongest  food,  the  rhyme  fails  here. 

And  wisse  thou  me  when  me  is  woe.     think  on  me. 
Lord,  thou  makest  friend  of  foe, 

Let  me  not  live  in  languor  thus, 
But  see  my  sorrow,  and  say  now  "  Ho," 

And  be  my  comfort,  Christ  Jesus. 

Of  fourteen  stanzas  called  Richard  de  Castres 
Prayer  to  Jesus,  I  choose  five  from  the  latter  half, 
where  the  prayer  passes  from  his  own  spiritual  neces- 
sities, very  tenderly  embodied,  to  those  of  others.  It 
does  our  hearts  good  to  see  the  clouded  sun  of  prayer 
for  oneself  break  forth  in  the  gladness  of  blessed 
entreaty  for  all  men,  for  them  that  make  Him  angry, 
for  saints  in  trouble,  for  the  country  torn  by  war,  for 
the  whole  body  of  Christ  and  its  unity.  After  the 
stanza — 

Jesus,  for  the  deadly  tears 

That  thou  sheddest  for  my  guilt, 
Hear  and  speed  my  prayers 

And  spare  me  that  I  be  not  spilt; 

tke  best  that  is  in  the  suppliant  shines  out  thus 


A  PRA  YER  FOR  ALL  MEA/.  53 

Jesu,  for  them  I  thee  beseech 

That  wrathen  thee  in  any  wise  ; 
Withhold  from  them  thy  hand  of  wreche,       vengeance. 

And  let  them  live  in  thy  service. 

Jesu,  most  comfort  for  to  see 

Of  thy  saintis  every  one, 
Comfort  them  that  careful  be, 

And  help  them  that  be  woe-begone. 

Jesu,  keep  them  that  be  good, 

And  amend  them  that  have  grieved  thee ; 

And  send  them  fruits  of  earthly  food, 
As  each  man  needeth  in  his  degree. 

Jesu,  that  art,  withouten  lees,  lies. 

Almighty  God  in  trinity, 
Cease  these  wars,  and  send  us  peace, 

With  lasting  love  and  charity. 

Jesu,  that  art  the  ghostly  stone  spiritual. 

Of  all  holy  church  in  middle-erde,  the  world. 

Bring  thy  folds  and  flocks  in  one, 

And  rule  them  rightly  with  one  herd. 

We  now  approach  the  second  revival  of  literature, 
preceded  in  England  by  the  arrival  of  the  art  of 
printing ;  after  which  we  find  ourselves  walking  in  a 
morning  twilight,  knowing  something  of  the  authors 
as  well  as  of  their  work. 

I  have  little  more  to  offer  from  this  century.  There 
are  a  few  religious  poems  by  John  Skelton,  who  was 
tutor  to  Henry  VIII.  But  such  poetry,  though  he 
was  a  clergyman,  was  not  much  in  Skelton's  manner 
of  mind.    We  have  far  better  of  a  similar  sort  already. 

A  new  sort  of  dramatic  representation  had  by 
this  time  greatly  encroached  upon  the  old  Miracle 
Plays.    The  fresh  growth  was  called  Morals  or  Moral 

5* 


54  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

Plays.  In  them  we  see  the  losing  victory  of  invention 
over  the  imagination  that  works  with  given  facts.  No 
doubt  in  the  Moral  Plays  there  is  more  exercise  of 
intellect  as  well  as  of  ingenuity;  for  they  consist  of 
metaphysical  facts  turned  into  individual  existences 
by  personification,  and  their  relations  then  dramatized 
by  allegory.  But  their  poetry  is  greatly  inferior  both 
in  character  and  execution  to  that  of  the  Miracles. 
They  have  a  religious  tendency,  as  everything  moral 
must  have,  and  sometimes  they  go  even  farther,  as 
in  one,  for  instance,  called  The  Castle  of  Perseverance, 
in  which  we  have  all  the  cardinal  virtues  and  all 
the  cardinal  sins  contending  for  the  possession  of 
Huma?ium  Genus,  the  Human  Race  being  presented 
as  a  new-born  child,  who  grows  old  and  dies  in  the 
course  of  the  play;  but  it  was  a  great  stride  in  art 
when  human  nature  and  human  history  began  again 
to  be  exemplified  after  a  simple  human  fashion,  in 
the  story,  that  is,  of  real  men  and  women,  instead 
of  by  allegorical  personifications  of  the  analysed  and 
abstracted  constituents  of  them.  Allegory  has  her 
place,  and  a  lofty  one,  in  literature ;  but  when  her 
plants  cover  the  garden  and  run  to  seed,  Allegory 
herself  is  ashamed  of  her  children :  the  loveliest 
among  them  are  despised  for  the  general  obtrusive- 
ness  of  the  family.  Imitation  not  only  brings 
the  thing  imitated  into  disrepute,  but  tends  to  de- 
stroy what  original  faculty  the  imitator  may  have 
possessed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

INTRODUCTION   TO  THE  ELIZABETHAN    ERA. 

POETS  now  began  to  write  more  smoothly — not  a 
great  virtue,  but  indicative  of  a  growing  desire  for 
finish,  which,  in  any  art,  is  a  great  virtue.  No  doubt 
smoothness  is  often  confounded  with,  and  mistaken 
for  finish ;  but  you  might  have  a  mirror-like  polish 
on  the  surface  of  a  statue,  for  instance,  and  yet  the 
marble  be  full  of  inanity,  or  vagueness,  or  even  vul- 
garity of  result — irrespective  altogether  of  its  idea. 
The  influence  of  Italian  poetry  reviving  once  more  in 
the  country,  roused  such  men  as  Wyat  and  Surrey  to 
polish  the  sound  of  their  verses  ;  but  smoothness,  I 
repeat,  is  not  melody,  and  where  the  attention  paid  to 
the  outside  of  the  form  results  in  flatness,  and,  still 
worse,  in  obscurity,  as  is  the  case  with  both  of  these 
poets,  little  is  gained  and  much  is  lost. 

Each  has  paraphrased  portions  of  Scripture,  but 
with  results  of  little  value ;  and  there  is  nothing 
of  a  religious  nature  I  care  to  quote  from  either, 
except  these  five  lines  from  an  epistle  of  Sir  Thomas 
Wyat's  : 

Thyself  content  with  that  is  thee  assigned, 
And  use  it  well  that  is  to  thee  allotted ; 


56  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

Then  seek  no  more  out  of  thyself  to  find 

The  thing  that  thou  hast  sought  so  long  before, 

For  thou  shalt  feel  it  sticking  in  thy  mind. 

Students  of  versification  will  allow  me  to  remark 
that  Sir  Thomas  was  the  first  English  poet,  so  far  as  I 
know,  who  used  the  terza  rima,  Dante's  chief  mode  of 
rhyming :  the  above  is  too  small  a  fragment  to  show 
that  it  belongs  to  a  poem  in  that  manner.  It  has  never 
been  popular  in  England,  although  to  my  mind  it  is 
the  finest  form  of  continuous  rhyme  in  any  language. 
Again,  we  owe  his  friend  Surrey  far  more  for  being 
the  first  to  write  English  blank  verse,  whether  invented 
by  himself  or  not,  than  for  any  matter  he  has  left  us 
in  poetic  shape. 

This  period  is  somewhat  barren  of  such  poetry  as 
we  want.  Here  is  a  portion  of  the  Fifty-first  Psalm, 
translated  amongst  others  into  English  verse  by 
John  Croke,  Master  in  Chancery,  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII. 

Open  my  lips  first  to  confess 

My  sin  conceived  inwardly  ; 
And  my  mouth  after  shall  express 

Thy  laud  and  praises  outwardly. 

If  I  should  offer  for  my  sin, 

Or  sacrifice  do  unto  thee 
Of  beast  or  fowl,  I  should  begin 

To  stir  thy  wrath  more  towards  me. 

Offer  we  must  for  sacrifice 

A  troubled  mind  with  sorrow's  smart : 
Canst  thou  refuse  ?     Nay,  nor  despise 

The  humble  and  the  contrite  heart. 


GASCOIGNE'S  GOOD  MORROW.  57 


To  us  of  Sion  that  be  born, 

If  thou  thy  favour  wilt  renew, 
The  broken  sowle,  the  temple  torn,  threshold. 

The  walls  and  all  shall  be  made  new. 

The  sacrifice  then  shall  we  make 

Of  justice  and  of  pure  intent ; 
And  all  things  else  thou  wilt  well  take 

That  we  shall  offer  or  present. 


In  the  works  of  George  Gascoigne  I  find  one  poem 
fit  for  quoting  here.  He  is  not  an  interesting  writer, 
and,  although  his  verse  is  very  good,  there  is  little 
likelihood  of  its  ever  being  read  more  than  it  is  now. 
The  date  of  his  birth  is  unknown,  but  probably  he 
was  in  his  teens  when  Surrey  was  beheaded  in  the 
year  1547.  He  is  the  only  poet  whose  style  reminds 
me  of  his,  although  the  wherefore  will  hardly  be  evi- 
dent from  my  quotation.  It  is  equally  flat,  but  more 
articulate.  I  need  not  detain  my  reader  with  remarks 
upon  him.  The  fact  is,  I  am  glad  to  have  something, 
if  not  "  a  cart-load  of  wholesome  instructions,"  to  cast 
into  this  Slough  of  Despond,  should  it  be  only  to  see 
it  vanish.     The  poem  is  called 

GASCOIGNE'S   GOOD  MORROW. 

You  that  have  spent  the  silent  night 

In  sleep  and  quiet  rest, 
And  joy  to  see  the  cheerful  light 

That  riseth  in  the  east ; 
Now  clear  your  voice,  now  cheer  your  heart  j 

Come  help  me  now  to  sing  ; 
Each  willing  wight  come  bear  a  part, 

To  praise  the  heavenly  King. 


58  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

And  you  whom  care  in  prison  keeps, 

Or  sickness  doth  suppress, 
Or  secret  sorrow  breaks  your  sleeps, 

Or  dolours  do  distress  ; 
Yet  bear  a  part  in  doleful  wise ; 

Yea,  think  it  good  accord, 
And  acceptable  sacrifice, 

Each  sprite  to  praise  the  Lord. 

The  dreadful  night  with  darksomeness 

Had  overspread  the  light, 
And  sluggish  sleep  with  drowsiness 

Had  overpressed  our  might : 
A  glass  wherein  you  may  behold 

Each  storm  that  stops  our  breath, 
Our  bed  the  grave,  our  clothes  like  mould, 

And  sleep  like  dreadful  death. 

Yet  as  this  deadly  night  did  last 

But  for  a  little  space, 
And  heavenly  day,  now  night  is  past, 

Doth  shew  his  pleasant  face; 
So  must  we  hope  to  see  God's  face 

At  last  in  heaven  on  high, 
When  we  have  changed  this  mortal  place 

For  immortality. 

This  is  not  so  bad,  but  it  is  enough.  There  are 
six  stanzas  more  of  it.  I  transcribe  yet  another,  that 
my  reader  may  enjoy  a  smile  in  passing.  He  is 
"  moralizing "  the  aspects  of  morning : 

The  carrion  crow,  that  loathsome  beast, 

Which  cries  against  the  rain, 
Both  for  his  hue  and  for  the  rest, 

The  Devil  resembleth  plain ; 
And  as  with  guns  we  kill  the  crow, 

For  spoiling  our  relief, 
The  Devil  so  must  we  overthrow, 

With  gunshot  of  belief. 


EACH  THING  HURT  OF  ITSELF.  59 

So  fares  the  wit,  when  it  walks  abroad  to  do  its 
business  without  the  heart  that  should  inspire  it. 
Here  is  one  good  stanza  from  his  De  Profundis : 

But  thou  art  good,  and  hast  of  mercy  store  ; 

Thou  not  delight'st  to  see  a  sinner  fall ; 

Thou  hearkenest  first,  before  we  come  to  call ; 
Thine  ears  are  set  wide  open  evermore  ; 
Before  we  knock  thou  comest  to  the  door. 

Thou  art  more  prest  to  hear  a  sinner  cry,  ready. 

Than  he  is  quick  to  climb  to  thee  on  high. 
Thy  mighty  name  be  praised  then  alway : 
Let  faith  and  fear 
True  witness  bear 
How  fast  they  stand  which  on  thy  mercy  stay. 

Here  follow  two  of  unknown  authorship,  belonging 
apparently  to  the  same  period. 

THAT  EACH  THING  IS  HURT  OF  ITSELF. 

Why  fearest  thou  the  outward  foe, 

When  thou  thyself  thy  harm  dost  feed  ?  . 
Of  grief  or  hurt,  of  pain  or  woe, 

Within  each  thing  is  sown  the  seed. 
So  fine  was  never  yet  the  cloth, 

No  smith  so  hard  his  iron  did  beat, 
But  th'  one  consumed  was  with  moth, 

Th'  other  with  canker  all  to-freate.  fretted  away. 

The  knotty  oak  and  wainscot  old 

Within  doth  eat  the  silly  worm  ; * 
Even  so  a  mind  in  envy  rolled 

Always  within  it  self  doth  burn. 
Thus  every  thing  that  nature  wrought, 

Within  itself  his  hurt  doth  bear  ! 
No  outward  harm  need  to  be  sought, 

Where  enemies  be  within  so  near. 

1  In  Chalmers1  English  Poets,  from  which  I  quote,  it  is  selly-worme ; 
but  I  think  this  must  be  a  mistake.     Silly  would  here  mean  weak. 


6o 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Lest  this  poem  should  appear  to  any  one  hardly- 
religious  enough  for  the  purpose  of  this  book,  I 
would  remark  that  it  reminds  me  of  what  our  Lord 
says  about  the  true  source  of  defilement :  it  is  what 
is  bred  in  the  man  that  defiles  him.  Our  Lord  him- 
self taught  a  divine  morality,  which  is  as  it  were  the 
body  of  love,  and  is  as  different  from  mere  morality 
as*the  living  body  is  from  the  dead. 


TOTUS  MUNDUS  IN  MALIGNO  POSITUS. 
The  whole  world  lieth  in  the  Evil  One. 

Complain  we  may ;  much  is  amiss ; 

Hope  is  nigh  gone  to  have  redress  j 
These  days  are  ill,  nothing  sure  is  ; 

Kind  heart  is  wrapt  in  heaviness. 

The  stern  is  broke,  the  sail  is  rent, 

The  ship  is  given  to  wind  and  wave  ; 
All  help  is  gone,  the  rock  present, 

That  will  be  lost,  what  man  can  save  ? 

When  power  lacks  care  and  forceth  not, 

When  care  is  feeble  and  may  not, 
When  might  is  slothful  and  will  not, 

Weeds  may  grow  where  good  herbs  cannot 

Wily  is  witty,  brainsick  is  wise ; 

Truth  is  folly,  and  might  is  right ; 
Words  are  reason,  and  reason  is  lies  ; 

The  bad  is  good,  darkness  is  light. 

Order  is  broke  in  things  of  weight : 

Measure  and  mean  who  doth  nor  flee  ? 
Two  things  prevail,  money  and  sleight ; 

To  seem  is  better  than  to  be. 

Folly  and  falsehood  prate  apace  ; 

Truth  under  bushel  is  fain  to  creep  ; 
Flattery  is  treble,  pride  sings  the  bass, 

The  mean,  the  best  part,  scant  doth  peep. 


helm  or  rudder — the 
[thing  to  steer  with. 

that  which  will  be  lost. 

careth. 
is  not  able. 


wiliness     is     counted 
[prudence. 


who  does   not  avoid 
[moderation  ? 


A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  NATION.  61 

With  floods  and  storms  thus  be  we  tost : 

Awake,  good  Lord,  to  thee  we  cry ; 
Our  ship  is  almost  sunk  and  lost ; 

Thy  mercy  help  our  misery. 

Man's  strength  is  weak  ;  man's  wit  is  dull ; 

Man's  reason  is  blind  these  things  t'amend: 
Thy  hand,  O  Lord,  of  might  is  full — 

Awake  betimes,  and  help  us  send. 

In  thee  we  trust,  and  in  no  wight ; 

Save  us,  as  chickens  under  the  hen  ; 
Our  crookedness  thou  canst  make  right — 

Glory  to  thee  for  aye.     Amen. 

The  apprehensions  of  the  wiser  part  of  the  nation 
have  generally  been  ahead  of  its  hopes.  Every  age 
is  born  with  an  ideal  ;  but  instead  of  beholding  that 
ideal  in  the  future  where  it  lies,  it  throws  it  into 
the  past.  Hence  the  lapse  of  the  nation  must  ap- 
pear tremendous,  even  when  she  is  making  her  best 
progress. 

6 


CHAPTER  V. 


SPENSER   AND   HIS    FRIENDS. 


We  have  now  arrived  at  the  period  of  English  history 
in  every  way  fullest  of  marvel — the  period  of  Eliza- 
beth. As  in  a  northern  summer  the  whole  region 
bursts  into  blossom  at  once,  so  with  the  thought  and 
feeling  of  England  in  this  glorious  era. 

The  special  development  of  the  national  mind 
with  which  we  are  now  concerned,  however,  did  not 
by  any  means  arrive  at  its  largest  and  clearest  re- 
sult until  the  following  century.  Still  its  progress  is 
sufficiently  remarkable.  For,  while  everything  that 
bore  upon  the  mental  development  of  the  nation 
must  bear  upon  its  poetry,  the  fresh  vigour  given 
by  the  doctrines  of  the  Reformation  to  the  sense  of 
personal  responsibility,  and  of  immediate  relation 
to  God,  with  the  grand  influences,  both  literary 
and  spiritual,  of  the  translated,  printed,  and  studied 
Bible,  operated  more  immediately  upon  its  devotional 
utterance. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century,  we 
begin  to  find  such  verse  as  I  shall  now  present  to 
my  readers.     Only  I  must  first  make  a  few  remarks 


THE  FAIRY  QUEEN.  63 

upon  the  great  poem  of  the  period :  I  mean,  of 
course,   The  Faerie  Queen. 

I  dare  not  begin  to  set  forth  after  any  fashion  the 
profound  religious  truth  contained  in  this  poem  ; 
for  it  would  require  a  volume  larger  than  this  to  set 
forth  even  that  of  the  first  book  adequately.  In  this 
case  it  is  well  to  remember  that  the  beginning  of 
comment,  as  well  as  of  strife,  is  like  the  letting  out 
of  water. 

The  direction  in  which  the  wonderful  allegory  of 
the  latter  moves  may  be  gathered  from  the  following 
stanza,  the  first  of  the  eighth  canto : 

Ay  me  !  how  many  perils  do  enfold 

The  righteous  man  to  make  him  daily  fall ; 
Were  not  that  heavenly  grace  doth  him  uphold,      it  understood. 

And  steadfast  Truth  acquit  him  out  of  all  ! 

Her  love  is  firm,  her  care  continual, 
So  oft  as  he,  through  his  own  foolish  pride 

Or  weakness,  is  to  sinful  bands  made  thrall  : 
Else  should  this  Redcross  Knight  in  bands  have  died, 
For  whose  deliverance  she  this  Prince  doth  thither  guide. 

Nor  do  I  judge  it  good  to  spend  much  of  my 
space  upon  remarks  personal  to  those  who  have  not 
been  especially  writers  of  sacred  verse.  When  we 
come  to  the  masters  of  such  song,  we  cannot  speak 
of  their  words  without  speaking  of  themselves ; 
but  when  in  the  midst  of  many  words  those  of  the 
kind  we  seek  are  few,  the  life  of  the  writer  does  not 
justify  more  than  a  passing  notice  here. 

We  know  but  little  of  Spenser's  history :  if  we  might 
know  all,  I  do  not  fear  that  we  should  find  anything 
to  destroy  the  impression  made  by  his  verse — that 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


he  was   a  Christian  gentleman,   a  noble  and  pure- 
minded  man,  of  highest  purposes  and  aims. 

His  style  is  injured  by  the  artistic  falsehood  of 
producing  antique  effects  in  the  midst  of  modern  feel- 
ing.1 It  was  scarcely  more  justifiable,  for  instance, 
in  Spenser's  time  than  it  would  be  in  ours  to  use 
glitterand  for  glittering ;  or  to  return  to  a  large 
use  of  alliteration,  three,  four,  sometimes  even  five 
words  in  the  same  line  beginning  with  the  same  con- 
sonant sound.  Everything  should  look  like  what  it  is  : 
prose  or  verse  should  be  written  in  the  language  of 
its  own  era.  No  doubt  the  wide-spreading  roots  of 
poetry  gather  to  it  more  variety  of  expression  than 
prose  can  employ ;  and  the  very  nature  of  verse  will 
make  it  free  of  times  and  seasons,  harmonizing  many 
opposites.  Hence,  through  its  mediation,  without 
discord,  many  fine  old  words,  by  the  loss  of  which 
the  language  has  grown  poorer  and  feebler,  might  be 
honourably  enticed  to  return  even  into  our  prose. 
But  nothing  ought  to  be  brought  back  because  it  is 
old.  That  it  is  out  of  use  is  a  presumptive  argument 
that  it  ought  to  remain  out  of  use:  good  reasons 
must  be  at  hand  to  support  its  reappearance.  I 
must  not,  however,  enlarge  upon  this  wide-reaching 
question  ;  for  of  the  two  portions  of  Spenser's  verse 
which  I  shall  quote,  one  of  them  is  not  at  all,  the 
other  not  so  much  as  his  great  poem,  affected  with 
this  whim. 

1  The  first  poem  he  wrote,  a  very  fine  one,  The  Shepheard's  Calender, 
is  so  full  of  old  and  provincial  words,  that  the  educated  people  of  his 
own  time  required  a  glossary  to  assist  them  in  the  reading  of  it. 


SPENSER >S  LO  VE  POEMS.  65 

The  first  I  give  is  a  sonnet,  one  of  eighty-eight 
which  he  wrote  to  his  wife  before  their  marriage. 
Apparently  disappointed  in  early  youth,  he  did  not 
fall  in  love  again, — at  least  there  is  no  sign  of  it 
that  I  know, — till  he  was  middle-aged.  But  then — 
woman  was  never  more  grandly  wooed  than  was  his 
Elizabeth.  I  know  of  no  marriage-present  worthy  to 
be  compared  with  the  Epithalamion  which  he  gave 
her  "  in  lieu  of  many  ornaments," — one  of  the  most 
stately,  melodious,  and  tender  poems  in  the  world, 
I  fully  believe. 

But  now  for  the  sonnet — the  sixty-eighth  of  the 
Amoretti: 

Most  glorious  Lord  of  Life  !  that,  on  this  day, 

Didst  make  thy  triumph  over  death  and  sin, 

And  having  harrowed  hell,  didst  bring  away 

Captivity  thence  captive,  us  to  win  : 

This  joyous  day,  dear  Lord,  with  joy  begin  ; 

And  grant  that  we,  for  whom  thou  diddest  die, 

Being  with  thy  dear  blood  clean  washed  from  sin, 

May  live  for  ever  in  felicity  ! 

And  that  thy  love  we  weighing  worthily, 

May  likewise  love  thee  for  the  same  again  ; 

And  for  thy  sake,  that  all  like  dear  didst  buy, 

With  love  may  one  another  entertain. 

So  let  us  love,  dear  love,  like  as  we  ought : 
Love  is  the  lesson  which  the  Lord  us  taught. 

Those  who  have  never  felt  the  need  of  the  divine, 
entering  by  the  channel  of  will  and  choice  and 
prayer,  for  the  upholding,  purifying,  and  glorifying  of 
that  which  itself  first  created  human,  will  consider 
this  poem  untrue,  having  its  origin  in  religious 
affectation.     Others  will  think  otherwise. 

S.L.  iv.  6* 


66  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

The  greater  part  of  what  I  shall  next  quote  is 
tolerably  known  even  to  those  who  have  made  little 
study  of  our  earlier  literature,  yet  it  may  not  be 
omitted  here.  It  is  from  An  Hymne  of  Heavenly 
Love,  consisting  of  forty-one  stanzas,  written  in 
what  was  called  Rime  Royal — a  favourite  with 
Milton,  and,  next  to  the  Spenserian,  in  my  opinion 
the  finest  of  stanzas.  Its  construction  will  reveal 
itself.  I  take  two  stanzas  from  the  beginning  of  the 
hymn,  then  one  from  the  heart  of  it,  and  the  rest 
from  the  close.  It  gives  no  feeling  of  an  outburst  of 
song,  but  rather  of  a  brooding  chant,  most  quiet  in 
virtue  of  the  depth  of  its  thoughtfulness.  Indeed, 
all  his  rhythm  is  like  the  melodies  of  water,  and  I 
could  quote  at  least  three  passages  in  which  he 
speaks  of  rhythmic  movements  and  watery  pro- 
gressions together.  His  thoughts,  and  hence  his 
words,  flow  like  a  full,  peaceful  stream,  diffuse,  with 
plenteousness  unrestrained. 

AN    HYMN   OF   HEAVENLY   LOVE. 

Before  this  world's  great  frame,  in  which  all  things 
Are  now  contained,  found  any  being  place, 

Ere  flitting  Time  could  wag  his  eyas  x  wings 
About  that  mighty  bound  which  doth  embrace 
The  rolling  spheres,  and  parts  their  hours  by  space, 

That  high  eternal  power,  which  now  doth  move 

In  all  these  things,  moved  in  itself  by  love. 

It  loved  itself,  because  itself  was  fair, 

For  fair  is  loved  ;  and  of  itself  begot 
Like  to  itself  his  eldest  son  and  heir, 

Eternal,  pure,  and  void  of  sinful  blot, 

1  Eyas  is  a  young  hawk,  whose  wings  are  not  fully  fledged. 


HYMN  OF  HE  A  VENL  Y  LO  VE.  67 


The  firstling  of  his  joy,  in  whom  no  jot 
Of  love's  dislike  or  pride  was  to  be  found, 
Whom  he  therefore  with  equal  honour  crowned. 

*  *  *  *  * 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  eternal  bliss, 

In  which  he  reigned  with  his  glorious  Sire, 
He  down  descended,  like  a  most  demisse  humble. 

And  abject  thrall,  in  flesh's  frail  attire, 

That  he  for  him  might  pay  sin's  deadly  hire, 
And  him  restore  unto  that  happy  state 
In  which  he  stood  before  his  hapless  fate. 

•  *  *  *  « 
O  blessed  well  of  love  !  O  flower  of  grace  ! 

O  glorious  Morning- Star !  O  Lamp  of  Light  ! 
Most  lively  image  of  thy  Father's  face  1 

Eternal  King  of  Glory,  Lord  of  might ! 

Meek  Lamb  of  God,  before  all  worlds  behight !     promised. 
How  can  we  thee  requite  for  all  this  good  ? 
Or  what  can  prize  that  thy  most  precious  blood  ?    equal  in  value. 

Yet  nought  thou  ask'st  in  lieu  of  all  this  love 

But  love  of  us  for  guerdon  of  thy  pain  : 
Ay  me  !  what  can  us  less  than  that  behove  ? 1 

Had  he  required  life  of2  us  again, 

Had  it  been  wrong  to  ask  his  own  with  gain? 
He  gave  us  life,  he  it  restored  lost ; 
Then  life  were  least,  that  us  so  little  cost. 

But  he  our  life  hath  left  unto  us  free — 

Free  that  was  thrall,  and  blessed  that  was  banned  ;    enslaved: 
Nor  aught  demands  but  that  we  loving  be,  [cursed. 

As  he  himself  hath  loved  us  aforehand, 

And  bound  thereto  with  an  eternal  band — 
Him  first  to  love  that  us  3  so  dearly  bought, 
And  next  our  brethren,  to  his  image  wrought. 


1  "What  less  than  that  is  fitting?" 

2  For,  even  in  Collier's  edition,  but  certainly  a  blunder. 

3  Was,  in  the  editions  ;  clearly  wrong. 

F    2 


68  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Him  first  to  love  great  right  and  reason  is, 

Who  first  to  us  our  life  and  being  gave, 
And  after,  when  we  fared  had  amiss, 

Us  wretches  from  the  second  death  did  save  ; 

And  last,  the  food  of  life,  which  now  we  have, 
Even  he  himself,  in  his  dear  sacrament, 
To  feed  our  hungry  souls,  unto  us  lent. 

Then  next,  to  love  our  brethren  that  were  made 
Of  that  self  mould,  and  that  self  Maker's  hand, 

That1  we,  and  to  the  same  again  shall  fade, 

Where  they  shall  have  like  heritage  of  land,       the  same  grave- 
However  here  on  higher  steps  we  stand  j  [room. 

Which  also  were  with  selfsame  price  redeemed, 

That  we,  however,  of  us  light  esteemed.  as. 

And  were  they  not,  yet  since  that  loving  Lord 

Commanded  us  to  love  them  for  his  sake, 
Even  for  his  sake,  and  for  his  sacred  word, 

Which  in  his  last  bequest  he  to  us  spake, 

We  should  them  love,  and  with  their  needs  partake ;         share 
Knowing  that,  whatsoe'er  to  them  we  give,  [their  needs. 

We  give  to  him  by  whom  we  all  do  live. 

Such  mercy  he  by  his  most  holy  rede  instruction. 

Unto  us  taught,  and  to  approve  it  true, 
Ensampled  it  by  his  most  righteous  deed, 

Shewing  us  mercy,  miserable  crew  ! 

That  we  the  like  should  to  the  wretches2  shew, 
And  love  our  brethren  ;  thereby  to  approve 
How  much  himself  that  loved  us  we  love. 

Then  rouse  thyself,  O  earth  !  out  of  thy  soil, 

In  which  thou  wallowest  like  to  filthy  swine, 
And  dost  thy  mind  in  dirty  pleasures  moyle,  defile. 

Unmindful  of  that  dearest  Lord  of  thine  ; 

Lift  up  to  him  thy  heavy  clouded  eyne, 
That  thou  this  sovereign  bounty  mayst  behold, 
And  read  through  love  his  mercies  manifold. 


1  "  Of  the  same  mould  and  hand  as  we." 

3  There  was  no  contempt  in  the  use  of  this  word  then. 


HYMN  OF  HE  A  VENL  Y  LO  VE.  69 


Begin  from  first,  where  he  encradled  was 

In  simple  cratch,  wrapt  in  a  wad  of  hay,  a  rack  or  crib. 

Between  the  toilful  ox  and  humble  ass  ; 

And  in  what  rags,  and  in  what  base  array 

The  glory  of  our  heavenly  riches  lay, 
When  him  the  silly1  shepherds  came  to  see, 
Whom  greatest  princes  sought  on  lowest  knee. 

From  thence  read  on  the  story  of  his  life, 

His  humble  carriage,  his  unfaulty  ways, 
His  cankered  foes,  his  fights,  his  toil,  his  strife, 

His  pains,  his  poverty,  his  sharp  assays,     temptations  or  trials. 

Through  which  he  passed  his  miserable  days, 
Offending  none,  and  doing  good  to  all, 
Yet  being  maliced  both  by  great  and  small. 

And  look  at  last,  how  of  most  wretched  wights 

He  taken  was,  betrayed,  and  false  accused ; 
How  with  most  scornful  taunts  and  fell  despites 

He  was  reviled,  disgraced,  and  foul  abused  ; 

How  scourged,  how  crowned,  how  buffeted,  how  bruised ; 
And,  lastly,  how  'twixt  robbers  crucified, 
With  bitter  wounds  through  hands,  through  feet,  and  .side ! 

******* 
With  sense  whereof  whilst  so  thy  softened  spirit 

Is  inly  touched,  and  humbled  with  meek  zeal 
Through  meditation  of  his  endless  merit, 

Lift  up  thy  mind  to  th'  author  of  thy  weal, 

And  to  his  sovereign  mercy  do  appeal ; 
Learn  him  to  love  that  loved  thee  so  dear, 
And  in  thy  breast  his  blessed  image  bear. 

With  all  thy  heart,  with  all  thy  soul  and  mind, 

Thou  must  him  love,  and  his  behests  embrace ;        commands. 
All  other  loves  with  which  the  world  doth  blind 

Weak  fancies,  and  stir  up  affections  base, 

Thou  must  renounce  and  utterly  displace, 
And  give  thyself  unto  him  full  and  free, 
That  full  and  freely  gave  himself  to  thee. 


Simple-hearted,  therefore  blessed  ;  like  the  German  seli%. 


7C  ENGLAND  >S  ANTIPHON. 

Thenceforth  all  world's  desire  will  in  thee  die, 
And  all  earth's  glory,  on  which  men  do  gaze, 

Seem  dust  and  dross  in  thy  pure-sighted  eye, 
Compared  to  that  celestial  beauty's  blaze, 
Whose  glorious  beams  all  fleshly  sense  do  daze 

With  admiration  of  their  passing  light, 

Blinding  the  eyes  and  lumining  the  sprite. 

Then  shalt  thy  ravished  soul  inspired  be 

With  heavenly  thoughts  far  above  human  skill,  reason. 

And  thy  bright  radiant  eyes  shall  plainly  see 
The  Idea  of  his  pure  glory  present  still 
Before  thy  face,  that  all  thy  spirits  shall  fill 

With  sweet  enragement  of  celestial  love, 

Kindled  through  sight  of  those  fair  things  above. 

There  is  a  companion  to  the  poem  of  which  these 
verses  are  a  portion,  called  An  Hymne  of  Heavenly 
Beautie,  filled  like  this,  and  like  two  others  on  Beauty 
and  Love,  with  Platonic  forms  both  of  thought  and 
expression  ;  but  I  have  preferred  quoting  a  longer 
part  of  the  former  to  giving  portions  of  both.  My 
reader  will  recognize  in  the  extract  a  fuller  force  of 
intellect  brought  to  bear  on  duty ;  although  it  would 
be  unwise  to  take  a  mind  like  Spenser's  for  a  type 
of  more  than  the  highest  class  of  the  age.  Doubt- 
less the  division  in  the  country  with  regard  to  many 
of  the  Church's  doctrines  had  its  part  in  bringing 
out  and  strengthening  this  tendency  to  reasoning 
which  is  so  essential  to  progress.  Where  religion 
itself  is  not  the  most  important  thing  with  the  indi- 
vidual, all  reasoning  upon  it  must  indeed  degenerate 
into  strifes  of  words,  vermiculate  questions,  as  Lord 
Bacon  calls  them — such,  namely,  as  like  the  hoarded 
manna  reveal  the  character  of  the  owner  by  breeding 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH'S  PILGRIMAGE.       71 

of  worms — yet  on  no  questions  may  the  light  of  the 
candle  of  the  Lord,  that  is,  the  human  understanding, 
be  cast  with  greater  hope  of  discovery  than  on 
those  of  religion,  those,  namely,  that  bear  upon  man's 
relation  to  God  and  to  his  fellow.  The  most  partial 
illumination  of  this  region,  the  very  cause  of  whose 
mystery  is  the  height  and  depth  of  its  truth,  is  of 
more  awful  value  to  the  human  being  than  perfect 
knowledge,  if  such  were  possible,  concerning  every- 
thing else  in  the  universe ;  while,  in  fact,  in  this 
very  region,  discovery  may  bring  with  it  a  higher 
kind  of  conviction  than  can  accompany  the  results 
of  investigation  in  any  other  direction.  In  these 
grandest  of  all  thinkings,  the  great  men  of  this 
time  showed  a  grandeur  of  thought  worthy  of  their 
surpassing  excellence  in  other  noblest  fields  of 
human  labour.  They  thought  greatly  because  they 
aspired  greatly. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  was  a  personal  friend  of  Ed- 
mund Spenser.  They  were  almost  of  the  same  age, 
the  former  born  in  1552,  the  latter  in  the  following 
year.  A  writer  of  magnificent  prose,  itself  full  of 
religion  and  poetry  both  in  thought  and  expression, 
he  has  not  distinguished  himself  greatly  in  verse. 
There  is,  however,  one  remarkable  poem  fit  for  my 
purpose,  which  I  can  hardly  doubt  to  be  his.  It 
is  called  Sir  Walter  RaleigJis  Pilgrimage.  The 
probability  is  that  it  was  written  just  after  his 
condemnation  in  1603  —  although  many  years 
passed  before  his  sentence  was  carried  into  exe- 
cution. 


72  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 


Give  me  my  scallop-shell  i  of  Quiet ; 
My  staff  of  Faith  to  walk  upon  ; 
My  scrip  of  Joy,  immortal  diet ; 
My  bottle  of  Salvation ; 
My  gown  of  Glory,  hope's  true  gage  ;" 
And  thus  I'll  take  my  pilgrimage. 
Blood  must  be  my  body's  balmer,  — 
No  other  balm  will  there  be  given — 
Whilst  my  soul,  like  quiet  palmer, 
Travelleth  towards  the  land  of  Heaven ; 
Over  the  silver  mountains, 
Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains — 
There  will  I  kiss 
The  bowl  of  Bliss, 
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill 
Upon  every  milken  hill : 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before, 
But  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 
Then  by  that  happy  blissful  day, 
More^  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see, 
That  have  cast  off  their  rags  of  clay, 
And  walk  apparelled  fresh  like  me : 
I'll  take  them  first, 
To  quench  their  thirst, 
And  taste  of  nectar's  suckets,  sweet  things — things 

At  those  clear  wells  [to  suck. 

Where  sweetness  dwells, 
Drawn  up  by  saints  in  crystal  buckets. 
And  when  our  bottles  and  all  we 
Are  filled  with  immortality, 
Then  the  blessed  paths  we'll  travel, 
Strowed  with  rubies  thick  as  gravel. 
Ceilings  of  diamonds !  sapphire  floors  ! 
High  walls  of  coral,  and  pearly  bowers  ! — 
From  thence  to  Heaven's  bribeless  hall, 
Where  no  corrupted  voices  brawl ; 
No  conscience  molten  into  gold  ; 
No  forged  accuser  bought  or  sold ; 

1  A  shell  plentiful  on  the  coast  of  Palestine,  and  worn  by  pilgrims 
o  show  that  they  had  visited  that  country. 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH'S  PILGRIMAGE.       73 


No  cause  deferred  ;  no  vain-spent  journey ; 

For  there  Christ  is  the  King's  Attorney, 

Who  pleads  for  all  without  degrees,  irrespective  of  rank. 

And  he  hath  angels,  but  no  fees. 

And  when  the  grand  twelve  million  jury 

Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury, 

'Gainst  our  souls  black  verdicts  give, 

Christ  pleads  his  death,  and  then  we  live. 

Be  thou  my  speaker,  taintless  Pleader, 

Unblotted  Lawyer,  true  Proceeder ! 

Thou  giv'st  salvation  even  for  alms, — 

Not  with  a  bribed  lawyer's  palms. 

And  this  is  my  eternal  plea 

To  him  that  made  heaven,  earth,  and  sea, 

That,  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon, 

Arid  want  a  head  to  dine  next  noon, — 

Just  at  the  stroke,  when  my  veins  start  and  spread, 

Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head : 

Then  am  I  ready,  like  a  palmer  fit, 

To  tread  those  blest  paths  which  before  I  writ. 

Of  death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell 

Who  oft  doth  think,  must  needs  die  well. 


This  poem  is  a  somewhat  strange  medley,  with  a 
confusion  of  figure,  and  a  repeated  failure  in  dignity, 
which  is  very  far  indeed  from  being  worthy  of 
Raleigh's  prose.  But  it  is  very  remarkable  how 
wretchedly  some  men  will  show,  who,  doing  their 
own  work  well,  attempt  that  for  which  practice  has 
not — to  use  a  word  of  the  time — enabled  them. 
There  is  real  power  in  the  poem,  however,  and  the 
confusion  is  far  more  indicative  of  the  pleased  success 
of  an  unaccustomed  hand  than  of  incapacity  for 
harmonious  work.  Some  of  the  imagery,  especially 
the  "crystal  buckets,"  will  suggest  those  grotesque 
drawings  called  Emblems,  which   were  much  in  use 

7 


74  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON 

before  and  after  this  period,  and,  indeed,  were  only 
a  putting  into  visible  shape  of  such  metaphors  and 
similes  as  some  of  the  most  popular  poets  of  the  time, 
especially  Doctor  Donne,  indulged  in  ;  while  the  pro- 
fusion of  earthly  riches  attributed  to  the  heavenly 
paths  and  the  places  of  repose  on  the  journey,  may 
well  recall  Raleigh's  own  descriptions  of  South  Ame- 
rican glories.  Englishmen  of  that  era  believed  in  an 
earthly  Paradise  beyond  the  Atlantic,  the  wonderful 
reports  of  whose  magnificence  had  no  doubt  a  share 
in  lifting  the  imaginations  and  hopes  of  the  people 
to  the  height  at  which  they  now  stood. 

There  may  be  an  appearance  of  irreverence  in  the 
way  in  which  he  contrasts  the  bribeless  Hall  of 
Heaven  with  the  proceedings  at  his  own  trial,  where 
he  was  browbeaten,  abused,  and,  from  the  very 
commencement,  treated  as  a  guilty  man  by  Sir 
Edward  Coke,  the  king's  attorney.  He  even  puns 
with  the  words  angels  and  fees.  Burning  from  a 
sense  of  injustice,  however,  and  with  the  solemnity  of 
death  before  him,  he  could  not  be  guilty  of  conscious 
irreverence,  at  least.  But  there  is  another  remark  I 
have  to  make  with  regard  to  the  matter,  which  will 
bear  upon  much  of  the  literature  of  the  time:  even 
the  great  writers  of  that  period  had  such  a  delight 
in  words,  and  such  a  command  over  them,  that  like 
their  skilful  horsemen,  who  enjoyed  making  their 
steeds  show  off  the  fantastic  paces  they  had  taught 
them,  they  played  with  the  words  as  they  passed 
through  their  hands,  tossing  them  about  as  a  juggler 
might  his  balls.     But  even  herein  the  true  master  of 


AN  ASPIRA  TION.  75 

speech  showed  his  masterdom :  his  play  must  not  be 
by-play ;  it  must  contribute  to  the  truth  of  the  idea 
which  was  taking  form  in  those  words.  We  shall  see 
this  more  plainly  when  we  come  to  transcribe  some 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  work.  There  is  no  irreverence 
in  it.  Nor  can  I  take  it  as  any  sign  of  hardness  that 
Raleigh  should  treat  the  visual  image  of  his  own 
anticipated  death  with  so  much  coolness,  if  the  writer 
of  a  little  elegy  on  his  execution,  when  Raleigh  was 
fourteen  years  older  than  at  the  presumed  date  of 
the  foregoing  verses,  describes  him  truly  when  he 
says: 

I  saw  in  every  stander-by 
Pale  death,  life  only  in  thy  eye. 

The  following  hymn  is  also  attributed  to  Raleigh. 
If  it  has  less  brilliance  of  fancy,  it  has  none  of  the 
faults  of  the  preceding,  and  is  far  more  artistic  in 
construction  and  finish,  notwithstanding  a  degree  of 
irregularity. 

Rise,  oh  my  soul,  with  thy  desires  to  heaven ; 

And  with  divinest  contemplation  use 
Thy  time,  where  time's  eternity  is  given  ; 

And  let  vain  thoughts  no  more  thy  thoughts  abuse, 
But  down  in  darkness  let  them  lie  : 
So  live  thy  better,  let  thy  worse  thoughts  die ! 

And  thou,  my  soul,  inspired  with  holy  flame, 
View  and  review,  with  most  regardful  eye, 
That  holy  cross,  whence  thy  salvation  came, 
On  which  thy  Saviour  and  thy  sin  did  die  ! 
For  in  that  sacred  object  is  much  pleasure, 
And  in  that  Saviour  is  my  life,  my  treasure. 


76  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


To  thee,  O  Jesus,  I  direct  my  eyes  ; 

To  thee  my  hands,  to  thee  my  humble  knees, 
To  thee  my  heart  shall  offer  sacrifice  ; 

To  thee  my  thoughts,  who  my  thoughts  only  sees — 
To  thee  myself, — myself  and  all  I  give  j 
To  thee  I  die ;  to  thee  I  only  live  1 

See  what  an  effect  of  stately  composure  quiet 
artistic  care  produces,  and  how  it  leaves  the  ear  of 
the  mind  in  a  satisfied  peace ! 

There  are  a  few  fine  lines  in  the  poem.  The  last 
two  lines  of  the  first  stanza  are  admirable ;  the  last 
two  of  the  second  very  weak.  The  last  stanza  is 
good  throughout. 

But  it  would  be  very  unfair  to  judge  Sir  Walter  by 
his  verse.  His  prose  is  infinitely  better,  and  equally 
displays  the  devout  tendency  of  his  mind — a  tendency 
common  to  all  the  great  men  of  that  age.  The  worst 
I  know  of  him  is  the  selfishly  prudent  advice  he  left 
behind  for  his  son.  No  doubt  he  had  his  faults,  but 
we  must  not  judge  a  man  even  by  what  he  says  in 
an  over-anxiety  for  the  prosperity  of  his  child. 

Another  remarkable  fact  in  the  history  of  those 
great  men  is  that  they  were  all  men  of  affairs. 
Raleigh  was  a  soldier,  a  sailor,  a  discoverer,  a  politi- 
cian, as  well  as  an  author.  His  friend  Spenser  was 
first  secretary  to  Lord  Grey  when  he  was  Governor 
of  Ireland,  and  afterwards  Sheriff  of  Cork.  He  has 
written  a  large  treatise  on  the  state  of  Ireland.  But 
of  all  the  men  of  the  age  no  one  was  more  variously 
gifted,  or  exercised  those  gifts  in  more  differing 
directions,  than  the  man  who  of  them  all  was  most  in 
favour  with  queen,  court,  and  people — Philip  Sidney. 


SIP  PHILIP  SIDNEY.  77 

I  could  write  much  to  set  forth  the  greatness,  culture, 
balance,  and  scope  of  this  wonderful  man.  Renowned 
over  Europe  for  his  person,  for  his  dress,  for  his  car- 
riage, for  his  speech,  for  his  skill  in  arms,  for  his 
horsemanship,  for  his  soldiership,  for  his  statesman- 
ship, for  his  learning,  he  was  beloved  for  his  friend- 
ship, his  generosity,  his  steadfastness,  his  simplicity, 
his  conscientiousness,  his  religion.  Amongst  the 
lamentations  over  his  death  printed  in  Spenser's 
works,  there  is  one  poem  by  Matthew  Roydon,  a  few 
verses  of  which  I  shall  quote,  being  no  vain  eulogy. 
Describing  his  personal  appearance,  he  says  : 

A  sweet,  attractive  kind  of  grace, 
A  full  assurance  given  by  looks, 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face, 

The  lineaments  of  Gospel  books  ! — 
I  trow,  that  countenance  cannot  lie 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in  the  eye. 

Was  ever  eye  did  see  that  face, 

Was  ever  ear  did  hear  that  tongue, 
Was  ever  mind  did  mind  his  grace 
That  ever  thought  the  travel  long  ? 
But  eyes  and  ears,  and  every  thought, 
Were  with  his  sweet  perfections  caught. 

His  Arcadia  is  a  book  full  of  wisdom  and  beauty. 
None  of  his  writings  were  printed  in  his  lifetime  ; 
but  the  A  rcadia  was  for  many  years  after  his  death 
one  of  the  most  popular  books  in  the  country.  His 
prose,  as  prose,  is  not  equal  to  his  friend  Raleigh's, 
being  less  condensed  and  stately.  It  is  too  full  of 
fancy  in  thought  and  freak  in  rhetoric  to  find  now- 
a-days  more  than  a  very  limited  number  of  readers  ; 

7* 


7*  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


and  a  good  deal  of  the  verse  that  is  set  in  it,  is 
obscure  and  uninteresting,  partly  from  some  false 
notions  of  poetic  composition  which  he  and  his  friend 
Spenser  entertained  when  young ;  but  there  is  often 
an  exquisite  art  in  his  other  poems. 

The  first  I  shall  transcribe  is  a  sonnet,  to  which 
the  Latin  words  printed  below  it  might  be  prefixed 
as  a  title  :  Splendidis  longum  valedico  nugis. 

A  LONG  FAREWELL  TO  GLITTERING  TRIFLES. 

Leave  me,  O  love,  which  reachest  but  to  dust ; 

And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things  ; 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust : 

What  ever  fades  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 
Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might 

To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedoms  be; 
Which  breaks  the  clouds,  and  opens  forth  the  light 

That  doth  both  shine  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 
Oh  take  fast  hold  ;  let  that  light  be  thy  guide, 

In  this  small  course  which  birth  draws  out  to  death  ; 
And  think  how  evil x  becometh  him  to  slide 

Who  seeketh  heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 
Then  farewell,  world  ;  thy  uttermost  I  see  : 
Eternal  love,  maintain  thy  life  in  me. 

Before  turning  to  the  treasury  of  his  noblest  verse, 
I  shall  give  six  lines  from  a  poem  in  the  Arcadia — 
chiefly  for  the  sake  of  instancing  what  great  questions 
those  mighty  men  delighted  in  : 

What  essence  destiny  hath  ;  if  fortune  be  or  no  ; 
Whence  our  immortal  souls  to  mortal  earth  do  stow2: 

1  Evil  was  pronounced  almost  as  a  monosyllable,  and  was  at  last 
contracted  to  ///. 

2  "  Come  to  find  a  place."     The  transitive  verb  stow  means  to  put 
in  a  place  :  here  it  is  used  intransitively. 


PSALMS  OF  SIR  PHILIP  AND  LADY  MARY.    79 

What  life  it  is,  and  how  that  all  these  lives  do  gather, 

With  outward  maker's  force,  or  like  an  inward  father. 

Such  thoughts,  me  thought,  I  thought,  and  strained  my  single  mind, 

Then  void  of  nearer  cares,  the  depth  of  things  to  find. 

Lord  Bacon  was  not  the  only  one,  in  such  an  age, 
to  think  upon  the  mighty  relations  of  physics  and 
metaphysics,  or,  as  Sidney  would  say,  "  of  naturall 
and  supernaturall  philosophic"  For  a  man  to  do 
his  best,  he  must  be  upheld,  even  in  his  speculations, 
by  those  around  him. 

In  the  specimen  just  given,  we  find  that  our  reli- 
gious poetry  has  gone  down  into  the  deeps.  There 
are  indications  of  such  a  tendency  in  the  older  times, 
but  neither  then  were  the  questions  so  articulate,  nor 
were  the  questioners  so  troubled  for  an  answer.  The 
alternative  expressed  in  the  middle  couplet  seems  to 
me  the  most  imperative  of  all  questions — both  for  the 
individual  and  for  the  church :  Is  man  fashioned  by 
the  hands  of  God,  as  a  potter  fashioneth  his  vessel ; 
or  do  we  indeed  come  forth  from  his  heart?  Is 
power  or  love  the  making  might  of  the  universe? 
He  who  answers  this  question  aright  possesses  the 
key  to  all  righteous  questions. 

Sir  Philip  and  his  sister  Mary,  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke, made  between  them  a  metrical  translation  of 
the  Psalms  of  David.  It  cannot  be  determined  which 
are  hers  and  which  are  his ;  but  if  I  may  conclude 
anything  from  a  poem  by  the  sister,  to  which  I  shall 
by  and  by  refer,  I  take  those  I  now  give  for  the 
brother's  work. 

The   souls  of  the  following   psalms   have,  in   the 


80  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

version  I  present,  transmigrated  into  fairer  forms  than 
I  have  found  them  occupy  elsewhere.  Here  is  a 
grand  hymn  for  the  whole  world :  Sing  unto  tlie 
Lord. 

PSALM  XCVI. 

Sing,  and  let  your  song  be  new, 

Unto  him  that  never  endeth ! 
Sing  all  earth,  and  all  in  you  — 
Sing  to  God,  and  bless  his  name. 

Of  the  help,  the  health  he  sendeth, 
Day  by  day  new  ditties  frame. 

Make  each  country  know  his  worth  : 

Of  his  acts  the  wondered  story 
Paint  unto  each  people  forth. 
For  Jehovah  great  alone, 

All  the  gods,  for  awe  and  glory, 
Far  above  doth  hold  his  throne. 

For  but  idols,  what  are  they 

Whom  besides  mad  earth  adoreth  ? 
He  the  skies  in  frame  did  lay. 
Grace  and  honour  are  his  guides  ; 

Majesty  his  temple  storeth  ; 
Might  in  guard  about  him  bides. 

Kindreds  come !  Jehovah  give — 

O  give  Jehovah  all  together, 
Force  and  fame  whereso  you  live. 
Give  his  name  the  glory  fit : 

Take  your  off 'rings,  get  you  thither, 
Where  he  doth  enshrined  sit. 

Go,  adore  him  in  the  place 

Where  his  pomp  is  most  displayed. 
Earth,  O  go  with  quaking  pace, 
Go  proclaim  Jehovah  king  : 

Stayless  world  shall  now  be  stayed  ; 
Righteous  doom  his  rule  shall  bring. 


GOD  IS  OUR  REFUGE.  81 


Starry  roof  and  earthy  floor, 

Sea,  and  all  thy  wideness  yieldeth, 
Now  rejoice,  and  leap,  and  roar. 
Leafy  infants  of  the  wood, 

Fields,  and  all  that  on  you  feedeth, 
Dance,  O  dance,  at  such  a  good  ! 

For  Jehovah  cometh,  lo  ! 

Lo  to  reign  Jehovah  cometh  ! 
Under  whom  you  all  shall  go. 
He  the  world  shall  rightly  guide — 

Truly,  as  a  king  becometh, 
For  the  people's  weal  provide. 

Attempting  to  give  an  ascending  scale  of  excellence 
— I  do  not  mean  in  subject  but  in  execution — I  now 
turn  to  the  national  hymn,  God  is  our  Refuge. 

PSALM  XLIV. 

God  gives  us  strength,  and  keeps  us  sound — 

A  present  help  when  dangers  call ; 
Then  fear  not  we,  let  quake  the  ground, 

And  into  seas  let  mountains  fall  ; 

Yea  so  let  seas  withal 
In  watery  hills  arise, 

As  may  the  earthly  hills  appal 
With  dread  and  dashing  cries. 

For  lo,  a  river,  streaming  joy, 

With  purling  murmur  safely  slides, 
That  city  washing  from  annoy, 

In  holy  shrine  where  God  resides. 

God  in  her  centre  bides  : 
What  can  this  city  shake  ? 

God  early  aids  and  ever  guides  : 
Who  can  this  city  take? 

When  nations  go  against  her  bent, 

And  kings  with  siege  her  walls  enround ; 
The  void  of  air  his  voice  doth  rent, 

Earth  fails  their  feet  with  melting  ground. 
s.l.  iv.  G 


82  ENGLAND'S  AN  TIP  HON. 

To  strength  and  keep  us  sound, 
The  God  of  armies  arms ; 

Our  rock  on  Jacob's  God  we  found, 
Above  the  reach  of  harms. 

O  come  with  me,  O  come,  and  view 

The  trophies  of  Jehovah's  hand  ! 
What  wrecks  from  him  our  foes  pursue ! 

How  clearly  he  hath  purged  our  land  ! 

By  him  wars  silent  stand : 
He  brake  the  archer's  bow, 

Made  chariot's  wheel  a  fiery  brand, 
And  spear  to  shivers  go. 

Be  still,  saith  he ;  know,  God  am  I ; 

Know  I  will  be  with  conquest  crowned 
Above  all  nations — raised  high, 

High  raised  above  this  earthly  round. 

To  strength  and  keep  us  sound, 
The  God  of  armies  arms ; 

Our  rock  on  Jacob's  God  we  found, 
Above  the  reach  of  harms. 

"  The  God  of  armies  arms  "  is  a  grand  line. 

Now  let  us  have  a  hymn  of  Nature — a  far  finer,  I 
think,  than  either  of  the  preceding :  Praise  waitetk 
for  thee. 

PSALM  LXV. 

Sion  it  is  where  thou  art  praised, 

Sion,  O  God,  where  vows  they  pay  thee  : 

There  all  men's  prayers  to  thee  raised, 
Return  possessed  of  what  they  pray  thee. 

There  thou  my  sins,  prevailing  to  my  shame, 

Dost  turn  to  smoke  of  sacrificing  flame. 

Oh  !  he  of  bliss  is  not  deceived,  disappointed. 

Whom  chosen  thou  unto  thee  takest ; 
And  whom  into  thy  court  received, 

Thou  of  thy  checkrole 1  number  makest : 

i  The  list  of  servants  then  kept  in  large  houses,  the  number  of  such 
being  far  greater  than  it  is  now. 


PRAISE  WAITETH  FOR  THEE.  83 

The  dainty  viands  of  thy  sacred  store 
Shall  feed  him  so  he  shall  not  hunger  more. 

From  thence  it  is  thy  threat'ning  thunder — 

Lest  we  by  wrong  should  be  disgraced — 
Doth  strike  our  foes  with  fear  and  wonder, 

O  thou  on  whom  their  hopes  are  placed, 
Whom  either  earth  doth  stedfastly  sustain, 
Or  cradle  rocks  the  restless  wavy  plain. 

Thy  virtue  stays  the  mighty  mountains,  power. 

Girded  with  power,  with  strength  abounding. 
The  roaring  dam  of  watery  fountains  the  "  dam  of  fountains  " 

Thy  beck  doth  make  surcease  her  sounding.  [is  the  ocean. 

When  stormy  uproars  toss  the  people's  brain, 
That  civil  sea  to  calm  thou  bring'st  again.  political^  as  opposed  to 


Where  earth  doth  end  with  endless  ending, 

All  such  as  dwell,  thy  signs  affright  them  ; 
And  in  thy  praise  their  voices  spending, 

Both  houses  of  the  sun  delight  them — 
Both  whence  he  comes,  when  early  he  awakes, 
And  where  he  goes,  when  evening  rest  he  takes. 

Thy  eye  from  heaven  this  land  beholdeth, 

Such  fruitful  dews  down  on  it  raining, 
That  storehouse -like  her  lap  enfoldeth 

Assured  hope  of  ploughman's  gaining  : 
Thy  flowing  streams  her  drought  doth  temper  so, 
That  buried  seed  through  yielding  grave  doth  grow. 

Drunk  is  each  ridge  of  thy  cup  drinking  ; 

Each  clod  relenteth  at  thy  dressing  ;  groweth  soft. 

Thy  cloud-borne  waters  inly  sinking, 

Fair  spring  sprouts  forth,  blest  with  thy  blessing. 
The  fertile  year  is  with  thy  bounty  crowned  ; 
And  where  thou  go'st,  thy  goings  fat  the  ground. 

Plenty  bedews  the  desert  places  ; 

A  hedge  of  mirth  the  hills  encloseth ; 
The  fields  with  flocks  have  hid  their  faces  ; 

A  robe  of  corn  the  valleys  clotheth. 
Deserts,  and  hills,  and  fields,  and  valleys  all, 
Rejoice,  shout,  sing,  and  on  thy  name  do  call, 

G  2 


[natural. 


84  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


The  first  stanza  seems  to  me  very  fine,  especially 
the  verse,  "  Return  possessed  of  what  they  pray  thee." 
The  third  stanza  might  have  been  written  after  the 
Spanish  Philip's  Armada,  but  both  King  David  and 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  were  dead  before  God  brake  that 
archer's  bow.1  The  fourth  line  of  the  next  stanza 
is  a  noteworthy  instance  of  the  sense  gathering  to 
itself  the  sound,  and  is  in  lovely  contrast  with  the 
closing  line  of  the  same  stanza. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  specimens  I  know  of 
the  play  with  words  of  which  I  have  already  spoken 
as  common  even  in  the  serious  writings  of  this  cen- 
tury, is  to  be  found  in  the  next  line  :  "  Where  earth 
doth  end  with  endless  ending."  David,  regarding  the 
world  as  a  flat  disc,  speaks  of  the  ends  of  the  earth : 
Sidney,  knowing  it  to  be  a  globe,  uses  the  word  of 
the  Psalmist,  but  re-moulds  and  changes  the  form 
of  it,  with  a  power  fantastic,  almost  capricious  in  its 
wilfulness,  yet  causing  it  to  express  the  fact  with  a 
marvel  of  precision.  We  see  that  the  earth  ends ;  we 
cannot  reach  the  end  we  see ;  therefore  the  "  earth 
doth  end  with  endless  ending."  It  is  a  case  of  that 
contradiction  in  the  form  of  the  words  used,  which 
brings  out  a  truth  in  another  plane  as  it  were ; — a  para- 
dox in  words,  not  in  meaning,  for  the  words  can  bear 
no  meaning  but  the  one  which  reveals  its  own  reality. 

i  There  has  been  some  blundering  in  the  transcription  of  the  last  two 
lines  of  this  stanza.  In  the  former  of  the  two  I  have  substituted  doth 
for  dost,  evidently  wrong.  In  the  latter,  the  word  cradle  is  doubtful.  I 
suggest  cradled,  but  am  not  satisfied  with  it.  The  meaning  is,  however, 
plain  enough. 


LORD,  THOU  HAST  SEARCHED  ME.  85 

The  following  little  psalm,  The  Lord  reigneth,  is 
a  thunderous  organ-blast  of  praise.  The  repetition 
of  words  in  the  beginning  of  the  second  stanza  pro- 
duces a  remarkably  fine  effect. 

PSALM  XCIII. 

Clothed  with  state,  and  girt  with  might, 

Monarch-like  Jehovah  reigns ; 
He  who  earth's  foundation  pight —  pitched, 

Pight  at  first,  and  yet  sustains  ; 

He  whose  stable  throne  disdains 
Motion's  shock  and  age's  flight  j 

He  who  endless  one  remains 
One,  the  same,  in  changeless  plight 

Rivers — yea,  though  rivers  roar, 

Roaring  though  sea-billows  rise, 
Vex  the  deep,  and  break  the  shore — 

Stronger  art  thou,  Lord  of  skies ! 

Firm  and  true  thy  promise  lies 
Now  and  still  as  heretofore  : 

Holy  worship  never  dies 
In  thy  house  where  we  adore. 

I  close  my  selections  from  Sidney  with  one  which 
I  consider  the  best  of  all :  it  is  the  first  half  of  Lord, 
thou  hast  searched  me. 

PSALM  CXXXIX. 

O  Lord,  in  me  there  lieth  nought 
But  to  thy  search  revealed  lies ; 
For  when  I  sit 
Thou  markest  it ; 
No  less  thou  notest  when  I  rise  : 
Yea,  closest  closet  of  my  thought 
Hath  open  windows  to  thine  eyes. 

Thou  walkest  with  me  when  I  walk  • 
When  to  my  bed  for  rest  I  go, 
I  find  thee  there, 
And  every  where: 

8 


86  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Not  youngest  thought  in  me  doth  grow, 
No,  not  one  word  I  cast  to  talk 
But,  yet  unuttered,  thou  dost  know. 

If  forth  I  march,  thou  goest  before  ; 
If  back  I  turn,  thou  com'st  behind : 
So  forth  nor  back 
Thy  guard  I  lack  ; 
Nay,  on  me  too  thy  hand  I  find. 
Well  I  thy  wisdom  may  adore, 
But  never  reach  with  earthy  mind. 

To  shun  thy  notice,  leave  thine  eye, 
O  whither  might  I  take  my  way  ? 
To  starry  sphere  ? 
Thy  throne  is  there. 
To  dead  men's  undelightsome  stay? 
There  is  thy  walk,  and  there  to  lie 
Unknown,  in  vain  I  should  assay. 

O  sun,  whom  light  nor  flight  can  match  I 
Suppose  thy  lightful  flightful  wings 
Thou  lend  to  me, 
And  I  could  flee 
As  far  as  thee  the  evening  brings  : 
Ev'n  led  to  west  he  would  me  catch, 
Nor  should  I  lurk  with  western  things. 

Do  thou  thy  best,  O  secret  night, 
In  sable  veil  to  cover  me : 
Thy  sable  veil 
Shall  vainly  fail : 
With  day  unmasked  my  night  shall  be ; 
For  night  is  day,  and  darkness  light, 
O  father  of  all  lights,  to  thee. 

Note  the  most  musical  play  with  the  words  light 
and  flight  in  the  fifth  stanza.  There  is  hardly  a  line 
that  is  not  delightful. 

They  were  a  wonderful  family  those  Sidneys.  Mary, 
for  whom  Philip  wrote  his  chief  work,  thence  called 
"  The  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia"  was  a  woman 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE.  87 

of  rare  gifts.  The  chief  poem  known  to  be  hers 
is  called  Our  Saviour  s  Passion.  It  is  full  of  the 
faults  of  the  age.  Sir  Philip's  sport  with  words  is  so 
graceful  and  ordered  as  to  subserve  the  utterance 
of  the  thought  :  his  sister's  fanciful  convolutions 
appear  to  be  there  for  their  own  sake — certainly  are 
there  to  the  obscuration  of  the  sense.  The  difficulty 
of  the  poem  arises  in  part,  I  believe,  from  corruption, 
but  chiefly  from  a  certain  fantastic  way  of  dealing 
with  thought  as  well  as  word  of  which  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  say  more  when  we  descend  a  little  further. 
It  is,  in  the  main,  a  lamentation  over  our  Saviour's 
sufferings,  in  which  the  countess  is  largely  guilty 
of  the  very  feminine  fault  of  seeking  to  convey  the 
intensity  of  her  emotions  by  forcing  words,  accumu- 
lating forms,  and  exaggerating  descriptions.  This 
may  indeed  convince  as  to  the  presence  of  feeling, 
but  cannot  communicate  the  feeling  itself.  The  right 
word  will  at  once  generate  a  sympathy  of  which  all 
agonies  of  utterance  will  only  render  the  willing  mind 
more  and  more  incapable. 

The  poem  is  likewise  very  diffuse — again  a  common 
fault  with  women  of  power  ;  for  indeed  the  faculty 
of  compressing  thought  into  crystalline  form  is  one 
of  the  rarest  gifts  of  artistic  genius.  It  consists  of  a 
hundred  and  ten  stanzas,  from  which  I  shall  gather 
and  arrange  a  few. 

He  placed  all  rest,  and  had  no  resting  place ; 

He  healed  each  pain,  yet  lived  in  sore  distress ; 

Deserved  all  good,  yet  lived  in  great  disgrace  ; 

Gave  all  hearts  joy,  himself  in  heaviness; 

Suffered  them  live,  by  whom  himself  was  slain : 
Lord,  who  can  live  to  see  such  love  again  ? 


88  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHOA. 


Whose  mansion  heaven,  yet  lay  within  a  manger ; 

Who  gave  all  food,  yet  sucked  a  virgin's  breast ; 

Who  could  have  killed,  yet  fled  a  threatening  danger ; 

Who  sought  all  quiet  by  his  own  unrest ; 

Who  died  for  them  that  highly  did  offend  him, 
And  lives  for  them  that  cannot  comprehend  him. 

Who  came  no  further  than  his  Father  sent  him, 
And  did  fulfil  but  what  he  did  command  him  ; 
Who  prayed  for  them  that  proudly  did  torment  him 
For  telling  truly  of  what  they  did  demand  him  ; 
Who  did  all  good  that  humbly  did  intreat  him, 
And  bare  their  blows,  that  did  unkindly  beat  him. 

Had  I  but  seen  him  as  his  servants  did, 

At  sea,  at  land,  in  city,  or  in  field, 

Though  in  himself  he  had  his  glory  hid, 

That  in  his  grace  the  light  of  glory  held, 

Then  might  my  sorrow  somewhat  be  appeased, 
That  once  my  soul  had  in  his  sight  been  pleased. 

No  !  I  have  run  the  way  of  wickedness, 
Forgetting  what  my  faith  should  follow  most ; 
I  did  not  think  upon  thy  holiness, 
Nor  by  my  sins  what  sweetness  I  have  lost. 
Oh  sin  1  for  sin  hath  compassed  me  about, 
That,  Lord,  I  know  not  where  to  find  thee  out. 

Where  he  that  sits  on  the  supernal  throne, 
In  majesty  most  glorious  to  behold, 
And  holds  the  sceptre  of  the  world  alone, 
Hath  not  his  garments  of  imbroidered  gold, 
But  he  is  clothed  with  truth  and  righteousness, 
Where  angels  all  do  sing  with  joyfulness, 

Where  heavenly  love  is  cause  of  holy  life, 

And  holy  life  increaseth  heavenly  love  ; 

Where  peace  established  without  fear  or  strife, 

Doth  prove  the  blessing  of  the  soul's  behove;1 

Where  thirst  nor  hunger,  grief  nor  sorrow  dwelleth, 
But  peace  in  joy,  and  joy  in  peace  excelleth. 


1  "  The  very  blessing  the  soul  needed." 


SIR  FULK  GREVILL.  89 

Had  all  the  poem  been  like  these  stanzas,  I  should 
not  have  spoken  so  strongly  concerning  its  faults. 
There  are  a  few  more  such  in  it.  It  closes  with  a 
very  fantastic  use  of  musical  terms,  following  upon 
a  curious  category  of  the  works  of  nature  as  praising 
God,  to  which  I  refer  for  the  sake  of  one  stanza,  or 
rather  of  one  line  in  the  stanza  : 

To  see  the  greyhound  course,  the  hound  in  chase, 

Whilst  little  dormouse  sleepeth  out  her  eyne  ; 

The  lambs  and  rabbits  sweetly  run  at  base,1 

Whilst  highest  trees  the  little  squirrels  climb, 

The  crawling  worms  out  creeping  in  the  showers, 
And  how  the  snails  do  climb  the  lofty  towers. 

What  a  love  of  animated  nature  there  is  in  the  lovely 
lady  !  I  am  all  but  confident,  however,  that  second 
line  came  to  her  from  watching  her  children  asleep. 
She  had  one  child  at  least :  that  William  Herbert, 
who  is  generally,  and  with  weight,  believed  the  W.  H. 
of  Shakspere's  Sonnets,  a  grander  honour  than  the 
earldom  of  Pembroke,  or  even  the  having  Philip  Sidney 
to  his  uncle :  I  will  not  say  grander  than  having  Mary 
Sidney  to  his  mother. 

Let  me  now  turn  to  Sidney's  friend,  Sir  Fulk 
Grevill,  Lord  Brooke,  who  afterwards  wrote  his  life, 
"  as  an  intended  preface  "  to  all  his  "  Monuments  to 
the  memory  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,"  the  said  monuments 
being  Lord  Brooke's  own  poems. 

My  extract  is  from  A  Treatise  of  Religion,  in  which, 

1  An  old  English  game,  still  in  use  in  Scotland  and  America,  but 
vanishing  before  cricket. 

8* 


90  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

if  the  reader  do  not  find  much  of  poetic  form,  he  will 
find  at  least  some  grand  spiritual  philosophy,  the  stuff 
whereof  all  highest  poetry  is  fashioned.  It  is  one  of 
the  first  poems  in  which  the  philosophy  of  religion, 
and  not  either  its  doctrine,  feeling,  or  history,  pre- 
dominates. It  is,  as  a  whole,  poor,  chiefly  from  its 
being  so  loosely  written.  There  are  men,  and  men 
whose  thoughts  are  of  great  worth,  to  whom  it  never 
seems  to  occur  that  they  may  utter  very  largely  and 
convey  very  little  ;  that  what  is  clear  to  themselves 
is  in  their  speech  obscure  as  a  late  twilight.  Their 
utterance  is  rarely  articulate  :  their  spiritual  mouth 
talks  with  but  half-movements  of  its  lips  ;  it  does  not 
model  their  thoughts  into  clear-cut  shapes,  such  as 
the  spiritual  ear  can  distinguish  as  they  enter  it.  Of 
such  is  Lord  Brooke.  These  few  stanzas,  however, 
my  readers  will  be  glad  to  have  : 


What  is  the  chain  which  draws  us  back  again, 
And  lifts  man  up  unto  his  first  creation  ? 
Nothing  in  him  his  own  heart  can  restrain  ; 
His  reason  lives  a  captive  to  temptation  ; 

Example  is  corrupt ;  precepts  are  mixed  ; 

All  fleshly  knowledge  frail,  and  never  fixed. 

It  is  a  light,  a  gift,  a  grace  inspired  ; 

A  spark  of  power,  a  goodness  of  the  Good  ; 

Desire  in  him,  that  never  is  desired  ; 

An  unity,  where  desolation  stood  ; 

In  us,  not  of  us,  a  Spirit  not  of  earth, 
Fashioning  the  mortal  to  immortal  birth. 
*  *  *  * 

Sense  of  this  God,  by  fear,  the  sensual  have, 

Distressed  Nature  crying  unto  Grace ; 


A   TREATISE  OF  RELIGION.  91 


For  sovereign  reason  then  becomes  a  slave, 
And  yields  to  servile  sense  her  sovereign  place, 

When  more  or  other  she  affects  to  be 

Than  seat  or  shrine  of  this  Eternity. 

Yea,  Prince  of  Earth  let  Man  assume  to  be, 
Nay  more — of  Man  let  Man  himself  be  God, 
Yet  without  God,  a  slave  of  slaves  is  he  ; 
To  others,  wonder  ;  to  himself,  a  rod  ; 

Restless  despair,  desire,  and  desolation  ; 

The  more  secure,  the  more  abomination. 

Then  by  affecting  power,  we  cannot  know  him. 
By  knowing  all  things  else,  we  know  him  less. 
Nature  contains  him  not.     Art  cannot  show  him. 
Opinions  idols,  and  not  God,  express. 

Without,  in  power,  we  see  him  everywhere  ; 

Within,  we  rest  not,  till  we  find  him  there. 

Then  seek  we  must ;  that  course  is  natural — 
For  owned  souls  to  find  their  owner  out. 
Our  free  remorses  when  our  natures  fall — 
When  we  do  well,  our  hearts  made  free  from  doubt- 
Prove  service  due  to  one  Omnipotence, 
And  Nature  of  religion  to  have  sense. 

Questions  again,  which  in  our  hearts  arise — 
Since  loving  knowledge,  not  humility— 
Though  they  be  curious,  godless,  and  unwise, 
Yet  prove  our  nature  feels  a  Deity ; 

For  if  these  strifes  rose  out  of  other  grounds, 
Man  were  to  God  as  deafness  is  to  sounds. 
*  *  *  » 

Yet  in  this  strife,  this  natural  remorse, 
If  we  could  bend  the  force  of  power  and  wit 
To  work  upon  the  heart,  and  make  divorce 
There  from  the  evil  which  preventeth  it, 

In  judgment  of  the  truth  we  should  not  doubt 
Good  life  would  find  a  good  religion  out 


92  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

If  a  fair  proportion  of  it  were  equal  to  this,  the 
poem  would  be  a  fine  one,  not  for  its  poetry,  but  for 
its  spiritual  metaphysics.  I  think  the  fourth  and 
fifth  of  the  stanzas  I  have  given,  profound  in 
truth,  and  excellent  in  utterance.  They  are  worth 
pondering. 

We  now  descend  a  decade  of  the  century,  to  find 
another  group  of  names  within  the  immediate  thres- 
hold of  the  sixties. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


LORD  BACON  AND  HIS  COEVALS. 


Except  it  be  Milton's,  there  is  not  any  prose  fuller 
of  grand  poetic  embodiments  than  Lord  Bacon's. 
Yet  he  always  writes  contemptuously  of  poetry, 
having  in  his  eye  no  doubt  the  commonplace  kinds 
of  it,  which  will  always  occupy  more  bulk,  and  hence 
be  more  obtrusive,  than  that  which  is  true  in  its 
nature  and  rare  in  its  workmanship.  Towards  the 
latter  end  of  his  life,  however,  being  in  ill  health  at 
the  time,  he  translated  seven  of  the  Psalms  of  David 
into  verse,  dedicating  them  to  George  Herbert.  The 
best  of  them  is  Psalm  civ. — just  the  one  upon  which 
we  might  suppose,  from  his  love  to  the  laws  of 
Nature,  he  would  dwell  with  the  greatest  sympathy. 
Partly  from  the  wish  to  hear  his  voice  amongst  the 
rest  of  our  singers,  partly  for  the  merits  of  the  version 
itself,  which  has  some  remarkable  lines,  I  have  resolved 
to  include  it  here.  It  is  the  first  specimen  I  have 
given  in  the  heroic  couplet. 

Father  and  King  of  Powers  both  high  and  low, 
Whose  sounding  fame  all  creatures  serve  to  blow; 
My  soul  shall  with  the  rest  strike  up  thy  praise, 
And  carol  of  thy  works,  and  wondrous  ways. 


94  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

But  who  can  blaze  thy  beauties,  Lord,  aright  ? 

They  turn  the  brittle  beams  of  mortal  sight. 

Upon  thy  head  thou  wear'st  a  glorious  crown, 

All  set  with  virtues,  polished  with  renown  : 

Thence  round  about  a  silver  veil  doth  fall 

Of  crystal  light,  mother  of  colours  all. 

The  compass,  heaven,  smooth  without  grain  or  fold, 

All  set  with  spangs  of  glittering  stars  untold, 

And  striped  with  golden  beams  of  power  unpent, 

Is  raised  up  for  a  removing  tent. 

Vaulted  and  arched  are  his  chamber  beams 

Upon  the  seas,  the  waters,  and  the  streams  ; 

The  clouds  as  chariots  swift  do  scour  the  sky  ; 

The  stormy  winds  upon  their  wings  do  fly 

His  angels  spirits  are,  that  wait  his  will; 

As  flames  of  fire  his  anger  they  fulfil. 

In  the  beginning,  with  a  mighty  hand, 

He  made  the  earth  by  counterpoise  to  stand, 

Never  to  move,  but  to  be  fixed  still ; 

Yet  hath  no  pillars  but  his  sacred  will. 

This  earth,  as  with  a  veil,  once  covered  was  ; 

The  waters  overflowed  all  the  mass ; 

But  upon  his  rebuke  away  they  fled, 

And  then  the  hills  began  to  show  their  head ; 

The  vales  their  hollow  bosoms  opened  plain, 

The  streams  ran  trembling  down  the  vales  again ; 

And  that  the  earth  no  more  might  drowned  be, 

He  set  the  sea  his  bounds  of  liberty ; 

And  though  his  waves  resound  and  beat  the  shore, 

Yet  it  is  bridled  by  his  holy  lore. 

Then  did  the  rivers  seek  their  proper  places, 

And  found  their  heads,  their  issues,  and  their  races  ; 

The  springs  do  feed  the  rivers  all  the  way, 

And  so  the  tribute  to  the  sea  repay  : 

Running  along  through  many  a  pleasant  field, 

Much  fruitfulness  unto  the  earth  they  yield  ; 

That  know  the  beasts  and  cattle  feeding  by, 

Which  for  to  slake  their  thirst  do  thither  hie. 

Nay,  desert  grounds  the  streams  do  not  forsake, 

But  through  the  unknown  ways  their  journey  take  ; 

The  asses  wild  that  hide  in  wilderness, 


THE  HUNDRED  AND  FOURTH  PSALM.        95 

Do  thither  come,  their  thirst  for  to  refresh. 

The  shady  trees  along  their  banks  do  spring, 

In  which  the  birds  do  build,  and  sit,  and  sing, 

Stroking  the  gentle  air  with  pleasant  notes, 

Plaining  or  chirping  through  their  warbling  throats. 

The  higher  grounds,  where  waters  cannot  rise, 

By  rain  and  dews  are  watered  from  the  skies, 

Causing  the  earth  put  forth  the  grass  for  beasts, 

And  garden-herbs,  served  at  the  greatest  feasts, 

And  bread  that  is  all  viands'  firmament, 

And  gives  a  firm  and  solid  nourishment ; 

And  wine  man's  spirits  for  to  recreate, 

And  oil  his  face  for  to  exhilarate. 

The  sappy  cedars,  tall  like  stately  towers, 

High  flying  birds  do  harbour  in  their  bowers; 

The  holy  storks  that  are  the  travellers, 

Choose  for  to  dwell  and  build  within  the  firs ; 

The  climbing  goats  hang  on  steep  mountains'  side  ; 

The  digging  conies  in  the  rocks  do  bide. 

The  moon,  so  constant  in  inconstancy, 

Doth  rule  the  monthly  seasons  orderly; 

The  sun,  eye  of  the  world,  doth  know  his  race, 

And  when  to  show,  and  when  to  hide  his  face. 

Thou  makest  darkness,  that  it  may  be  night, 

Whenas  the  savage  beasts  that  fly  the  light, 

As  conscious  of  man's  hatred,  leave  their  den, 

And  range  abroad,  secured  from  sight  of  men. 

Then  do  the  forests  ring  of  lions  roaring, 

That  ask  their  meat  of  God,  their  strength  restoring  ; 

But  when  the  day  appears,  they  back  do  fly, 

And  in  their  dens  again  do  lurking  lie  ; 

Then  man  goes  forth  to  labour  in  the  field, 

Whereby  his  grounds  more  rich  increase  may  yield. 

O  Lord,  thy  providence  sufnceth  all ; 

Thy  goodness  not  restrained  but  general 

Over  thy  creatures,  the  whole  earth  doth  flow 

With  thy  great  largeness  poured  forth  here  below. 

Nor  is  it  earth  alone  exalts  thy  name, 

But  seas  and  streams  likewise  do  spread  the  same. 

The  rolling  seas  unto  the  lot  do  fall 

Of  beasts  innumerable,  great  and  small ; 


96  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

There  do  the  stately  ships  plough  up  the  floods  ; 

The  greater  navies  look  like  walking  woods  ; 

The  fishes  there  far  voyages  do  make, 

To  divers  shores  their  journey  they  do  take ; 

There  hast  thou  set  the  great  leviathan, 

That  m  ukes  the  seas  to  seethe  like  boiling  pan  : 

All  these  do  ask  of  thee  their  meat  to  live, 

Which  in  due  season  thou  to  them  dost  give  : 

Ope  thou  thy  hand,  and  then  they  have  good  fare ; 

Shut  thou  thy  hand,  and  then  they  troubled  are. 

All  life  and  spirit  from  thy  breath  proceed, 

Thy  word  doth  all  things  generate  and  feed : 

If  thou  withdraw'st  it,  then  they  cease  to  be, 

And  straight  return  to  dust  and  vanity  ; 

But  when  thy  breath  thou  dost  send  forth  again, 

Then  all  things  do  renew,  and  spring  amain, 

So  that  the  earth  but  lately  desolate 

Doth  now  return  unto  the  former  state. 

The  glorious  majesty  of  God  above 

Shall  ever  reign,  in  mercy  and  in  love ; 

God  shall  rejoice  all  his  fair  works  to  see, 

For,  as  they  come  from  him,  all  perfect  be. 

The  earth  shall  quake,  if  aught  his  wrath  provoke  ; 

Let  him  but  touch  the  mountains,  they  shall  smoke.  * 

As  long  as  life  doth  last,  I  hymns  will  sing, 

With  cheerful  voice,  to  the  Eternal  King ; 

As  long  as  I  have  being,  I  will  praise 

The  works  of  God,  and  all  his  wondrous  ways. 

I  know  that  he  my  words  will  not  despise  : 

Thanksgiving  is  to  him  a  sacrifice. 

But  as  for  sinners,  they  shall  be  destroyed 

From  off  the  earth — their  places  shall  be  void. 

Let  all  his  works  praise  him  with  one  accord ! 

Oh  praise  the  Lord,  my  soul  !     Praise  ye  the  Lord  ! 

His  Hundred  and  Forty-ninth  Psalm  is  likewise 
good ;  but  I  have  given  enough  of  Lord  Bacon's 
verse,  and  proceed  to  call  up  one  who  was  a  poet 
indeed,  although  little  known  as  such,  being  a  Roman 
Catholic,  a  Jesuit  even,  and  therefore,   in  Elizabeth's 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL.  97 

reign,  a  traitor,  and  subject  to  the  penalties  according. 
Robert  Southwell,  "  thirteen  times  most  cruelly  tor- 
tured," could  "not  be  induced  to  confess  anything, 
not  even  the  colour  of  the  horse  whereon  on  a  certain 
day  he  rode,  lest  from  such  indication  his  adversaries 
might  conjecture  in  what  house,  or  in  company  of 
what  Catholics,  he  that  day  was."  I  quote  these 
words  of  Lord  Burleigh,  lest  any  of  my  readers, 
discovering  weakness  in  his  verse,  should  attribute 
weakness  to  the  man  himself. 

It  was  no  doubt  on  political  grounds  that  these 
tortures,  and  the  death  that  followed  them,  were 
inflicted.  But  it  was  for  the  truth  as  he  saw  it,  that 
is,  for  the  sake  of  duty,  that  Southwell  thus  endured. 
We  must  not  impute  all  the  evils  of  a  system  to 
every  individual  who  holds  by  it.  It  may  be  found 
that  a  man  has,  for  the  sole  sake  of  self-abnegation, 
yielded  homage,  where,  if  his  object  had  been  per- 
sonal aggrandizement,  he  might  have  wielded  autho- 
rity. Southwell,  if  that  which  comes  from  within  a 
man  may  be  taken  as  the  test  of  his  character,  was 
a  devout  and  humble  Christian.  In  the  choir  of  our 
singers  we  only  ask:  "  Dost  thou  lift  up  thine  heart?" 
Southwell's  song  answers  for  him  :  "  I  lift  it  up  unto 
the  Lord." 

His  chief  poem  is  called  St.  Peter's  Complaint  It 
is  of  considerable  length — a  hundred  and  thirty-two 
stanzas.  It  reminds  us  of  the  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke's poem,  but  is  far  more  articulate  and  far 
superior  in  versification.  Perhaps  its  chief  fault  is 
that  the  pauses  are   so  measured  with  the  lines  as 

S.L.  iv  9 


98  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

to  make  every  line  almost  a  sentence,  the  effect  of 
which  is  a  considerable  degree  of  monotony.  Like 
all  writers  of  the  time,  he  is,  of  course,  fond  of  anti- 
thesis, and  abounds  in  conceits  and  fancies  ;  whence 
he  attributes  a  multitude  of  expressions  to  St.  Peter 
of  which  never  possibly  could  the  substantial  ideas 
have  entered  the  Apostle's  mind,  or  probably  any 
other  than  Southwell's  own.  There  is  also  a  good 
deal  of  sentimentalism  in  the  poem,  a  fault  from 
which  I  fear  modern  Catholic  verse  is  rarely  free. 
Probably  the  Italian  poetry  with  which  he  must 
have  been  familiar  in  his  youth,  during  his  residence 
in  Rome,  accustomed  him  to  such  irreverences  of 
expression  as  this  sentimentalism  gives  occasion  to, 
and  which  are  very  far  from  indicating  a  corre- 
spondent state  of  feeling.  Sentiment  is  a  poor 
ape  of  love;  but  the  love  is  true  notwithstand- 
ing. Here  are  a  few  stanzas  from  St.  Peters 
Complaint : 


Titles  I  make  untruths  :  am  I  a  rock, 

That  with  so  soft  a  gale  was  overthrown  ? 

Am  I  fit  pastor  for  the  faithful  flock 

To  guide  their  souls  that  murdered  thus  mine  own? 

A  rock  of  ruin,  not  a  rest  to  stay  ; 

A  pastor, — not  to  feed,  but  to  betray. 

Parting  from  Christ  my  fainting  force  declined ; 

With  lingering  foot  I  followed  him  aloof ; 
Base  fear  out  of  my  heart  his  love  unshrined, 

Huge  in  high  words,  but  impotent  in  proof. 
My  vaunts  did  seem  hatched  under  Samson's  locks, 
Yet  woman's  words  did  give  me  murdering  knocks- 


ST.  PETER'S  COMPLAINT.  99 

At  Sorrow's  door  I  knocked :  they  craved  my  name. 

I  answered,  "One  unworthy  to  be  known." 
"  What  one  ?  "  say  they.     "  One  worthiest  of  blame." 

"But  who?"     "A  wretch  not  God's,  nor  yet  his  own." 
"Araan?"  "Oh,  no!"  "A  beast?"  "Much  worse."  "What  creature?" 
"  A  rock. "     "  How  called  ?  "     "  The  rock  of  scandal,  Peter. " 
******** 
Christ !  health  of  fevered  soul,  heaven  of  the  mind, 

Force  of  the  feeble,  nurse  of  infant  loves, 
Guide  to  the  wandering  foot,  light  to  the  blind, 

Whom  weeping  wins,  repentant  sorrow  moves  ! 
Father  in  care,  mother  in  tender  heart, 
Revive  and  save  me,  slain  with  sinful  dart ! 

If  King  Manasseh,  sunk  in  depth  of  sin, 

With  plaints  and  tears  recovered  grace  and  crown, 

A  worthless  worm  some  mild  regard  may  win, 
And  lowly  creep  where  flying  threw  it  down. 

A  poor  desire  I  have  to  mend  my  ill ; 

I  should,  I  would,  I  dare  not  say  I  will. 

I  dare  not  say  I  will,  but  wish  I  may ; 

My  pride  is  checked  :  high  words  the  speaker  spilt. 
My  good,  O  Lord,  thy  gift — thy  strength,  my  stay — 

Give  what  thou  bidst,  and  then  bid  what  thou  wilt. 
Work  with  me  what  of  me  thou  dost  request; 
Then  will  I  dare  the  worst  and  love  the  best. 

Here,  from   another  poem,  are  two  little  stanzas 
worth  preserving: 

Yet  God's  must  I  remain, 

By  death,  by  wrong,  by  shame ; 

I  cannot  blot  out  of  my  heart 
That  grace  wrought  in  his  name. 

I  cannot  set  at  nought, 

Whom  I  have  held  so  dear; 
I  cannot  make  Him  seem  afar 

That  is  indeed  so  near. 

The  following  poem,  in  style  almost  as  simple  as 

H  2 


ioo  ENGLAND  >S  ANTIPHON. 


a  ballad,  is  at  once  of  the  quaintest  and  truest. 
Common  minds,  which  must  always  associate  a 
certain  conventional  respectability  with  the  forms  of 
religion,  will  think  it  irreverent.  I  judge  its  reverence 
profound,  and  such  none  the  less  that  it  is  pervaded 
by  a  sweet  and  delicate  tone  of  holy  humour.  The 
very  title  has  a  glimmer  of  the  glowing  heart  of 
Christianity : 

NEW  PRINCE,  NEW  POMP. 

Behold  a  silly,1  tender  babe, 

In  freezing  winter  night, 
In  homely  manger  trembling  lies  ; 

Alas  !  a  piteous  sight. 

The  inns  are  full ;  no  man  will  yield 

This  little  pilgrim  bed  ; 
But  forced  he  is  with  silly  beasts 

In  crib  to  shroud  his  head. 

Despise  him  not  for  lying  there  ; 

First  what  he  is  inquire  : 
An  orient  pearl  is  often  found 

In  depth  of  dirty  mire. 

Weigh  not  his  crib,  his  wooden  dish, 

Nor  beasts  that  by  him  feed  ; 
Weigh  not  his  mother's  poor  attire, 

Nor  Joseph's  simple  weed. 

This  stable  is  a  prince's  court, 

The  crib  his  chair  of  state  ; 
The  beasts  are  parcel  of  his  pomp, 

The  wooden  dish  his  plate. 


1  Silly  means  innocent,  and  therefore  blessed;  ignorant  of  evil,  and  in 
so  far  helpless.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  affection  came  to  apply  it  to  idiots. 
It  is  applied  to  the  ox  and  ass  in  the  next  stanza,  and  is  often  an  epithet 
of  shepherds. 


ST.  PETER'S  REMORSE. 


The  persons  in  that  poor  attire 

His  royal  liveries  wear  ; 
The  Prince  himself  is  come  from  heaven : 

This  pomp  is  praised  there. 

With  joy  approach,  O  Christian  wight ; 

Do  homage  to  thy  King ; 
And  highly  praise  this  humble  pomp, 

Which  he  from  heaven  doth  bring. 

Another,  on  the  same  subject,  he  calls  New  Heaven, 
New  War.  It  is  fantastic  to  a  degree.  One  stanza, 
however,  I  like  much : 

This  little  babe,  so  few  days  old, 
Is  come  to  rifle  Satan's  fold  ; 
All  hell  doth  at  his  presence  quake, 
Though  he  himself  for  cold  do  shake  ; 
For  in  this  weak,  unarmed  wise, 
The  gates  of  hell  he  will  surprise. 

There  is  profoundest  truth  in  the  symbolism  of  this. 

Here  is  the  latter  half  of  a  poem  called  St.  Peter's 
Remorse : 

Did  mercy  spin  the  thread 

To  weave  in  justice'  loom? 
Wert  then  a  father  to  conclude 

With  dreadful  judge's  doom  ? 

It  is  a  small  relief 

To  say  I  was  thy  child, 
If,  as  an  ill-deserving  foe, 

From  grace  I  am  exiled. 

I  was,  I  had,  I  could — 

All  words  importing  want ; 
They  are  but  dust  of  dead  supplies, 

Where  needful  helps  are  scant. 

Once  to  have  been  in  bliss 

That  hardly  can  return, 
Doth  but  bewray  from  whence  I  fell, 

And  wherefore  now  I  mourn. 
9* 


102  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

All  thoughts  of  passed  hopes 

Increase  my  present  cross ; 
Like  ruins  of  decayed  joys, 

They  still  upbraid  my  loss. 

0  mild  and  mighty  Lord  ! 
Amend  that  is  amiss  ; 

My  sin  my  sore,  thy  love  my  salve, 
Thy  cure  my  comfort  is. 

Confirm  thy  former  deed  ; 
Reform  that  is  defiled  ; 

1  was,  I  am,  I  will  remain 

Thy  charge,  thy  choice,  thy  child. 

Here  are  some  neat  stanzas  from  a  poem  he  calls 

CONTENT   AND    RICH. 

My  conscience  is  my  crown, 

Contented  thoughts  my  rest ; 
My  heart  is  happy  in  itself, 

My  bliss  is  in  my  breast. 

My  wishes  are  but  few, 

All  easy  to  fulfil ; 
I  make  the  limits  of  my  power 

The  bounds  unto  my  will. 

Sith  sails  of  largest  size 

The  storm  doth  soonest  tear, 
I  bear  so  small  and  low  a  sail 

As  freeth  me  from  fear.  t 

And  taught  with  often  proof, 

A  tempered  calm  I  find 
To  be  most  solace  to  itself, 

Best  cure  for  angry  mind. 

No  chance  of  Fortune's  calms 

Can  cast  my  comforts  down  ; 
When  Fortune  smiles  I  smile  to  think 

How  quickly  she  will  frown. 


DANIEL.— SIR  HENRY  WOTTON  103 

And  when  in  froward  mood 

She  proves  an  angry  foe  : 
Small  gain  I  found  to  let  her  come, 

Less  loss  to  let  her  go. 

There  is  just  one  stanza  in  a  poem  of  Daniel,  who 
belongs  by  birth  to  this  group,  which  I  should  like  to 
print  by  itself,  if  it  were  only  for  the  love  Coleridge 
had  to  the  last  two  lines  of  it.  It  needs  little  stretch 
of  scheme  to  let  it  show  itself  amongst  religious  poems. 
It  occurs  in  a  fine  epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumberland. 
Daniel's  writing  is  full  of  the  practical  wisdom  of  the 
inner  life,  and  the  stanza  which  I  quote  has  a  certain 
Wordsworthian  flavour  about  it.  It  will  not  make  a 
complete  sentence,  but  must  yet  stand  by  itself: 

Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be 
The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the  which 
These  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll ;  where  all  th'  aspects  of  miseiy 
Predominate  ;  whose  strong  effects  are  such 
As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  redress ; 
And  that  unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man  ! 

Later  in  the  decade,  comes  Sir  Henry  Wotton.  It 
will  be  seen  that  I  have  arranged  my  singers  with 
reference  to  their  birth,  not  to  the  point  of  time  at 
which  this  or  that  poem  was  written  or  published. 
The  poetic  influences  which  work  on  the  shaping 
fantasy  are  chiefly  felt  in  youth,,  and  hence  the 
predominant  mode  of  a  poet's  utterance  will  be 
determined  by  what  and  where  and  amongst  whom 
he  was  during  that  season.  The  kinds  of  the  vari- 
ous poems  will  therefore  probably  fall  into   natural 


104  ENGLAND'S  ANT  IP  HON. 

sequence  rather  after  the  dates  of  the  youth  of 
the  writers  than  after  the  years  in  which  they  were 
written. 

Wotton  was  better  known  in  his  day  as  a  politician 
than  as  a  poet,  and  chiefly  in  ours  as  the  subject  of 
one  of  Izaak  Walton's  biographies.  Something  of 
artistic  instinct,  rather  than  finish,  is  evident  in  his 
verses.  Here  is  the  best  and  the  best-known  of  the 
few  poems  recognized  as  his  : 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught, 

That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 

And  silly  truth  his  highest  skill ; 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are  ; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  to  the  world  with  care 

Of  prince's  grace  or  vulgar  breath ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  humours  freed  ; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great ; 

Who  envieth  none  whom  chance  doth  raise 

Or  vice ;  who  never  understood 
How  swords  give  slighter  wounds  than  praise. 

Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good ; 

WTho  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 

More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 

With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend. 

This  man  is  free  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall  : 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


SIR  JOHN  DA  VIES.  105 

Some  of  my  readers  will  observe  that  in  many 
places  I  have  given  a  reading  different  from  that  in 
the  best-known  copy  of  the  poem.  I  have  followed 
a  manuscript  in  the  handwriting  of  Ben  Jonson.1  I 
cannot  tell  whether  Jonson  has  put  the  master's  hand 
to  the  amateur's  work,  but  in  every  case  I  find  his 
reading  the  best. 

Sir  John  Davies  must  have  been  about  fifteen 
years  younger  than  Sir  Fulk  Grevill.  He  was  born  in 
1570,  was  bred  a  barrister,  and  rose  to  high  position 
through  the  favour  of  James  I. — gained,  it  is  said,  by 
the  poem  which  the  author  called  Nosce  Teipsum? 
but  which  is  generally  entitled  On  the  Immortality 
of  the  Soul,  intending  by  immortality  the  spiritual 
nature  of  the  soul,  resulting  in  continuity  of  exist- 
ence. It  is  a  wonderful  instance  of  what  can  be 
done  for  metaphysics  in  verse,  and  by  means  of 
imagination  or  poetic  embodiment  generally.  Argu- 
mentation cannot  of  course  naturally  belong  to  the 
region  of  poetry,  however  well  it  may  comport  itself 
when  there  naturalized ;  and  consequently,  although 
there  are  most  poetic  no  less  than  profound  passages 
in  the  treatise,  a  light  scruple  arises  whether  its  con- 
stituent matter  can  properly  be  called  poetry.  At 
all  events,  however,  certain  of  the  more  prosaic 
measures  and  stanzas  lend  themselves  readily,  and 
with  much  favour,  to  some  of  the  more  complex 
of  logical  necessities.     And  it  must  be  remembered 

1  See  Poems  by  Sir  Henry  Wotton  and  others.  Edited  by  the  Rev. 
John  Hannah. 

3  "Know  thyself 


106  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

that  in  human  speech,  as  in  the  human  mind,  there 
are  no  absolute  divisions :  power  shades  off  into 
feeling;  and  the  driest  logic  may  find  the  heroic 
couplet  render  it  good  service. 

Sir  John  Davies's  treatise  is  not  only  far  more 
poetic  in  image  and  utterance  than  that  of  Lord 
Brooke,  but  is  far  more  clear  in  argument  and  firm 
in  expression  as  well.     Here  is  a  fine  invocation : 

O  Light,  which  mak'st  the  light  which  makes  the  day  ! 

Which  sett'st  the  eye  without,  and  mind  within ; 

Lighten  my  spirit  with  one  clear  heavenly  ray, 

Which  now  to  view  itself  doth  first  begin. 
*  *  *  * 

Thou,  like  the  sun,  dost,  with  an  equal  ray, 

Into  the  palace  and  the  cottage  shine  ; 
And  show'st  the  soul  both  to  the  clerk  and  lay,  learned  and 

By  the  clear  lamp  of  th'  oracle  divine.  [unlearned. 

He  is  puzzled  enough  to  get  the  theology  of  his  time 
into  harmony  with  his  philosophy,  and  I  cannot  say 
that  he  is  always  triumphant  in  the  attempt ;  but 
here  at  least  is  good  argument  in  justification  of  the 
freedom  of  man  to  sin. 

If  by  His  Avord  he  had  the  current  stayed 

Of  Adam's  will,  which  was  by  nature  free, 

It  had  been  one  as  if  his  word  had  said, 

"  I  will  henceforth  that  Man  no  Man  shall  be." 
*  *  *  » 

For  what  is  Man  without  a  moving  mind, 

Which  hath  a  judging  wit,  and  choosing  will  ? 

Now,  if  God's  pow'r  should  her  election  bind, 

Her  motions  then  would  cease,  and  stand  all  still. 
*  *  *  * 

So  that  if  Man  would  be  unvariable, 

He  must  be  God,  or  like  a  rock  or  tree  ; 
For  ev'n  the  perfect  angels  were  not  stable, 

But  had  a  fall  more  desperate  than  we. 


ON  THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL.      107 

The  poem  contains  much  excellent  argument  in 
mental  science  as  well  as  in  religion  and  metaphysics  ; 
but  with  that  department  I  have  nothing  to  do. 

I  shall  now  give  an  outlook  from  the  highest  peak 
of  the  poem — to  any  who  are  willing  to  take  the 
trouble  necessary  for  seeing  what  another  would 
show  them. 

The  section  from  which  I  have  gathered  the  follow- 
ing stanzas  is  devoted  to  the  more  immediate  proof 
of  the  soul's  immortality. 

Her  only  end  is  never-ending  bliss, 

Which  is  the  eternal  face  of  God  to  see, 
Who  last  of  ends  and  first  of  causes  is  ; 

And  to  do  this,  she  must  eternal  be. 

Again,  how  can  she  but  immortal  be, 

When  with  the  motions  of  both  will  and  wit, 

She  still  aspireth  to  eternity, 

And  never  rests  till  she  attains  to  it? 

Water  in  conduit-pipes  can  rise  no  higher 

Than  the  well-head  from  whence  it  first  doth  spring ; 

Then  since  to  eternal  God  she  doth  aspire, 
She  cannot  but  be  an  eternal  thing. 

At  first  her  mother-earth  she  holdeth  dear, 

And  doth  embrace  the  world  and  worldly  things ; 

She  flies  close  by  the  ground,  and  hovers  here, 
And  mounts  not  up  with  her  celestial  wings. 

Yet  under  heaven  she  cannot  light  on  ought 

That  with  her  heavenly  nature  doth  agree 
She  cannot  rest,  she  cannot  fix  her  thought, 

She  cannot  in  this  world  contented  be. 

For  who  did  ever  yet,  in  honour,  wealth, 

Or  pleasure  of  the  sense,  contentment  find  ? 
Whoever  ceased  to  wish,  when  he  had  health  ? 

Or  having  wisdom,  was  not  vexed  in  mind  ? 


io8  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Then  as  a  bee,  which  among  weeds  doth  fall, 

Which  seem  sweet  flowers,  with  lustre  fresh  and  gay — 

She  lights  on  that,  and  this,  and  tasteth  all, 
But,  pleased  with  none,  doth  rise,  and  soar  away ; 

So,  when  the  soul  finds  here  no  true  content, 
And,  like  Noah's  dove,  can  no  sure  footing  take, 

She  doth  return  from  whence  she  first  was  sent, 
And  flies  to  him  that  first  her  wings  did  make. 

Wit,  seeking  truth,  from  cause  to  cause  ascends, 

And  never  rests  till  it  the  first  attain  ; 
Will,  seeking  good,  finds  many  middle  ends, 

But  never  stays  till  it  the  last  do  gain. 

Now  God  the  truth,  and  first  of  causes  is  ; 

God  is  the  last  good  end,  which  lasteth  still ; 
Being  Alpha  and  Omega  named  for  this  : 

Alpha  to  wit,  Omega  to  the  will. 

Since  then  her  heavenly  kind  she  doth  display 

In  that  to  God  she  doth  directly  move, 
And  on  no  mortal  thing  can  make  her  stay, 

She  cannot  be  from  hence,  but  from  above. 

One    passage    more,   the    conclusion    and    practical 
summing  up  of  the  whole  : 

O  ignorant  poor  man  !  what  dost  thou  bear, 
Locked  up  within  the  casket  of  thy  breast  ? 

What  jewels  and  what  riches  hast  thou  there  ! 
What  heavenly  treasure  in  so  weak  a  chest ! 

Think  of  her  worth,  and  think  that  God  did  mean 
This  worthy  mind  should  worthy  things  embrace  : 

Blot  not  her  beauties  with  thy  thoughts  unclean, 
Nor  her  dishonour  with  thy  passion  base. 

Kill  not  her  quickening  power  with  surfeitings  ; 

Mar  not  her  sense  with  sensuality  ; 
Cast  not  her  serious  wit  on  idle  things  ; 

Make  not  her  free-will  slave  to  vanity. 


PHASES  OF  RELIGIOUS  POETRY.  109 

And  when  thou  think' st  of  her  eternity, 

Think  not  that  death  against  our  nature  is  ; 

Think  it  a  birth ;  and  when  thou  go'st  to  die, 
Sing  like  a  swan,  as  if  thou  went'st  to  bliss. 

And  if  thou,  like  a  child,  didst  fear  before, 

Being  in  the  dark  where  thou  didst  nothing  see  ; 

Now  I  have  brought  thee  torch-light,  fear  no  more ; 
Now  when  thou  diest  thou  canst  not  hood-wink'd  be. 

And  thou,  my  soul,  which  turn'st  with  curious  eye 
To  view  the  beams  of  thine  own  form  divine, 

Know,  that  thou  canst  know  nothing  perfectly, 
While  thou  art  clouded  with  this  flesh  of  mine. 

Take  heed  of  over-weening,  and  compare 

Thy  peacock's  feet  with  thy  gay  peacock's  train : 

Study  the  best  and  highest  things  that  are, 
But  of  thyself  an  humble  thought  retain. 

Cast  down  thyself,  and  only  strive  to  raise 

The  story  of  thy  Maker's  sacred  name  : 
Use  all  thy  powers  that  blessed  Power  to  praise, 

Which  gives  the  power  to  be,  and  use  the  same. 

In  looking  back  over  our  path  from  the  point  we 
have  now  reached,  the  first  thought  that  suggests 
itself  is — How  much  the  reflective  has  supplanted  the 
emotional !  I  do  not  mean  for  a  moment  that  the 
earliest  poems  were  without  thought,  or  that  the 
latest  are  without  emotion ;  but  in  the  former  there 
is  more  of  the  skin,  as  it  were — in  the  latter,  more 
of  the  bones  of  worship  ;  not  that  in  the  one  the 
worship  is  but  skin-deep,  or  that  in  the  other  the 
bones  are  dry. 

To  look  at  the  change  a  little  more  closely :  we 
find  in  the  earliest  time,  feeling  working  on  historic 
fact  and  on  what  was  received  as  such,  and  the  result 

10 


1 10  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON 

simple  aspiration  after  goodness.  The  next  stage  is 
good  doctrine — I  use  the  word,  as  St.  Paul  uses  it, 
for  instruction  in  righteousness — chiefly  by  means  of 
allegory,  all  attempts  at  analysis  being  made  through 
personification  of  qualities.  Here  the  general  form  is 
frequently  more  poetic  than  the  matter.  After  this 
we  have  a  period  principally  of  imitation,  sometimes 
good,  sometimes  indifferent.  Next,  with  the  Refor- 
mation and  the  revival  of  literature  together,  come 
more  of  art  and  more  of  philosophy,  to  the  detri- 
ment of  the  lyrical  expression.  People  cannot  think 
and  sing :  they  can  only  feel  and  sing.  But  the 
philosophy  goes  farther  in  this  direction,  even  to  the 
putting  in  abeyance  of  that  from  which  song  takes 
its  rise, — namely,  feeling  itself.  As  to  the  former, 
amongst  the  verse  of  the  period  I  have  given,  there 
is  hardly  anything  to  be  called  song  but  Sir  Philip 
Sidney's  Psalms,  and  for  them  we  are  more  indebted 
to  King  David  than  to  Sir  Philip.  As  to  the  latter, 
even  in  the  case  of  that  most  mournful  poem  of 
the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  it  is,  to  quite  an  un- 
healthy degree,  occupied  with  the  attempt  to  work 
upon  her  own  feelings  by  the  contemplation  of  them, 
instead  of  with  the  utterance  of  those  aroused  by  the 
contemplation  of  truth.  In  her  case  the  metaphysics 
have  begun  to  prey  upon  and  consume  the  emotions. 
Besides,  that  age  was  essentially  a  dramatic  age,  as 
even  its  command  of  language,  especially  as  shown 
in  the  pranks  it  plays  with  it,  would  almost  indicate  ; 
and  the  dramatic  impulse  is  less  favourable,  though 
not  at  all  opposed,  to  lyrical  utterance.     In  the  cases 


HISTORIC  WAVES  OF  PROGRESS.  in 

of  Sir  Fulk  Grevill  and  Sir  John  Davies,  the  feeling 
is  assuredly  profound  ;  but  in  form  and  expression 
the  philosophy  has  quite  the  upper  hand. 

We  must  not  therefore  suppose,  however,  that  the 
cause  of  religious  poetry  has  been  a  losing  one.  The 
last  wave  must  sink  that  the  next  may  rise,  and  the 
whole  tide  flow  shorewards.  The  man  must  awake 
through  all  his  soul,  all  his  strength,  all  his  mind,  that 
he  may  worship  God  in  unity,  in  the  one  harmonious 
utterance  of  his  being  :  his  heart  must  be  united  to 
fear  his  name.  And  for  this  final  perfection  of  the 
individual  the  race  must  awake.  At  this  season  and 
that  season,  this  power  or  that  power  must  be  chiefly 
developed  in  her  elect ;  and  for  its  sake  the  growth  of 
others  must  for  a  season  be  delayed.  But  the  next 
generation  will  inherit  all  that  has  gone  before  ;  and 
its  elect,  if  they  be  themselves  pure  in  heart,  and  indi- 
vidual, that  is  original,  in  mind,  will,  more  or  less 
thoroughly,  embody  the  result,  in  subservience  to 
some  new  development,  essential  in  its  turn  to  further 
progress.  Even  the  fallow  times,  which  we  are  so 
ready  to  call  barren,  must  have  their  share  in  working 
the  one  needful  work.  They  may  be  to  the  nation 
that  which  sickness  so  often  is  to  the  man — a  time  of 
refreshing  from  the  Lord.  A  nation's  life  does  not 
lie  in  its  utterance  any  more  than  in  the  things  which 
it  possesses :  it  lies  in  its  action.  The  utterance  is  a 
result,  and  therefore  a  sign,  of  life  ;  but  there  may 
be  life  without  any  such  sign.  To  do  justice,  to  love 
mercy,  to  walk  humbly  with  God,  is  the  highest  life 
of  a  nation  as  of  an  individual ;  and  when  the  time 


U2  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON 


for  speech  comes,  it  will  be  such  life  alone  that  causes 
the  speech  to  be  strong  at  once  and  harmonious. 
When  at  last  there  are  not  ten  righteous  men  in 
Sodom,  Sodom  can  neither  think,  act,  nor  say,  and 
her  destruction  is  at  hand. 

While  the  wave  of  the  dramatic  was  sinking,  the 
wave  of  the  lyric  was  growing  in  force  and  rising  in 
height.  Especially  as  regards  religious  poetry  we  are 
as  yet  only  approaching  the  lyrical  jubilee.  Fact 
and  faith,  self-consciousness  and  metaphysics,  all  are 
needful  to  the  lyric  of  love.  Modesty  and  art  find 
their  grandest,  simplest  labour  in  rightly  subordinating 
each  of  those  to  the  others.  How  could  we  have 
a  George  Herbert  without  metaphysics  ?  In  those 
poems  I  have  just  given,  the  way  of  metaphysics 
was  prepared  for  him.  That  which  overcolours  one 
age  to  the  injury  of  its  harmony,  will,  in  the  next  or 
the  next,  fall  into  its  own  place  in  the  seven-chorded 
rainbow  of  truth. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


DR.    DONNE. 


We  now  come  to  Dr.  John  Donne,  a  man  of  justly 
great  respect  and  authority,  who,  born  in  the  year 
1573,  the  fifteenth  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  died  Dean  of 
St.  Paul's  in  the  year  1636.  But,  although  even  Ben 
Jonson  addresses  him  as  "the  delight  of  Phcebus  and 
each  Muse,"  we  are  too  far  beyond  the  power  of  his 
social  presence  and  the  influence  of  his  public  utter- 
ances to  feel  that  admiration  of  his  poems  which  was 
so  largely  expressed  during  his  lifetime.  Of  many 
of  those  that  were  written  in  his  youth,  Izaak  Walton 
says  Dr.  Donne  "wished  that  his  own  eyes  had 
witnessed  their  funerals."  Faulty  as  they  are,  how- 
ever, they  are  not  the  less  the  work  of  a  great  and 
earnest  man. 

Bred  to  the  law,  but  never  having  practised  it,  he 
lost  his  secretaryship  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  Elles- 
mere  through  the  revenge  of  Sir  George  More, 
whose  daughter  Donne  had  married  in  secret  because 
of  her  father's  opposition.  Dependent  thereafter  for 
years  on  the  generous  kindness  of  unrelated  friends, 
he  yet  for  conscience'  sake  refused  to  take  orders  when 

S.L.  IV.  10* 


1 14  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 

a  good  living  was  offered  him  ;  and  it  was  only  after 
prolonged  thought  that  he  yielded  to  the  importunity 
of  King  James,  who  was  so  convinced  of  his  surpass- 
ing fitness  for  the  church  that  he  would  speed  him  to- 
wards no  other  goal.  When  at  length  he  dared  hope 
that  God  might  have  called  him  to  the  high  office, 
never  man  gave  himself  to  its  duties  with  more  of 
whole-heartedness  and  devotion,  and  none  have  proved 
themselves  more  clean  of  the  sacrilege  of  serving  at 
the  altar  for  the  sake  of  the  things  offered  thereon. 

He  is  represented  by  Dr.  Johnson  as  one  of  the 
chief  examples  of  that  school  of  poets  called  by  him- 
self the  metaphysical,  an  epithet  which,  as  a  definition, 
is  almost  false.  True  it  is  that  Donne  and  his  fol- 
lowers were  always  ready  to  deal  with  metaphysical 
subjects,  but  it  was  from  their  mode,  and  not  their 
subjects,  that  Dr.  Johnson  classed  them.  What  this 
mode  was  we  shall  see  presently,  for  I  shall  be  justi- 
fied in  setting  forth  its  strangeness,  even  absurdity,  by 
the  fact  that  Dr.  Donne  was  the  dear  friend  of  George 
Herbert,  and  had  much  to  do  with  the  formation  of 
his  poetic  habits.  Just  twenty  years  older  than 
Herbert,  and  the  valued  and  intimate  friend  of  his 
mother,  Donne  was  in  precisely  that  relation  of  age 
and  circumstance  to  influence  the  other  in  the  highest 
degree. 

The  central  thought  of  Dr.  Donne  is  nearly  sure  to 
foe  just :  the  subordinate  thoughts  by  means  of  which 
he  unfolds  it  are  often  grotesque,  and  so  wildly  associ- 
ated as  to  remind  one  of  the  lawlessness  of  a  dream, 
wherein  mere  suggestion  without   choice   or   fitness 


DR.  DONNE:  HIS  MODE  AND  STYLE.         115 

rules  the  sequence.  As  some  of  the  writers  of  whom 
I  have  last  spoken  would  play  with  words,  Dr.  Donne 
would  sport  with  ideas,  and  with  the  visual  images  or 
embodiments  of  them.  Certainly  in  his  case  much 
knowledge  reveals  itself  in  the  association  of  his  ideas, 
and  great  facility  in  the  management  and  utterance 
of  them.  True  likewise,  he  says  nothing  unrelated 
to  the  main  idea  of  the  poem  ;  but  not  the  less 
certainly  does  the  whole  resemble  the  speech  of  a 
child  of  active  imagination,  to  whom  judgment  as 
to  the  character  of  his  suggestions  is  impossible,  his 
taste  being  equally  gratified  with  a  lovely  image 
and  a  brilliant  absurdity:  a  butterfly  and  a  shining 
potsherd  are  to  him  similarly  desirable.  Whatever 
wild  thing  starts  from  the  thicket  of  thought,  all  is 
worthy  game  to  the  hunting  intellect  of  Dr.  Donne, 
and  is  followed  without  question  of  tone,  keeping,  or 
harmony.  In  his  play  with  words,  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
kept  good  heed  that  even  that  should  serve  the  end 
in  view  ;  in  his  play  with  ideas,  Dr.  John  Donne,  so 
far  from  serving  the  end,  sometimes  obscures  it  almost 
hopelessly :  the  hart  escapes  while  he  follows  the 
squirrels  and  weasels  and  bats.  It  is  not  surprising 
that,  their  author  being  so  inartistic  with  regard  to 
their  object,  his  verses  themselves  should  be  harsh 
and  unmusical  beyond  the  worst  that  one  would 
imagine  fit  to  be  called  verse.  He  enjoys  the  un- 
enviable distinction  of  having  no  rival  in  ruggedness 
of  metric  movement  and  associated  sounds.  This  is 
clearly  the  result  of  indifference ;  an  indifference,  how- 
ever, which  grows  very  strange  to  us  when  we  find 

I  2 


1 16  ENGLAND  >S  ANTIPHON. 

that  he  can  write  a  lovely  verse  and  even  an  exquisite 
stanza. 

Greatly  for  its  own  sake,  partly  for  the  sake  of 
illustration,  I  quote  a  poem  containing  at  once  his 
best  and  his  worst,  the  result  being  such  an  incon- 
gruity that  we  wonder  whether  it  might  not  be  called 
his  best  and  his  worst,  because  we  cannot  determine 
which.  He  calls  it  Hymn  to  God,  my  God,  in  my 
Sickness.  The  first  stanza  is  worthy  of  George  Herbert 
in  his  best  mood. 

Since  I  am  coming  to  that  holy  room, 

Where  with  the  choir  of  saints  for  evermore 

I  shall  be  made  thy  music,  as  I  come 
I  tune  the  instrument  here  at  the  door, 
And  what  I  must  do  then,  think  here  before. 

To  recognize  its  beauty,  leaving  aside  the  depth 
and  truth  of  the  phrase,  "  Where  I  shall  be  made 
thy  music,"  we  must  recall  the  custom  of  those  days 
to  send  out  for  "  a  noise  of  musicians."  Hence  he 
imagines  that  he  has  been  summoned  as  one  of  a 
band  already  gone  in  to  play  before  the  king  of 
"The  High  Countries :"  he  is  now  at  the  door,  where 
he  is  listening  to  catch  the  tone,  that  he  may  have 
his  instrument  tuned  and  ready  before  he  enters. 
But  with  what  a  jar  the  next  stanza  breaks  on  heart, 
mind,  and  ear ! 

Whilst  my  physicians  by  their  love  are  grown 
Cosmographers,  and  I1  their  map,  who  lie 

Flat  on  this  bed,  that  by  them  may  be  shown 
That  this  is  my  south-west  discovery, 
Per  fretum  fcbr is — by  these  straits  to  die  ; — 


And  I  have  grown  their  map. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  WEST.  117 


Here,  in  the  midst  of  comparing  himself  to  a  map, 
and  his  physicians  to  cosmographers  consulting  the 
map,  he  changes  without  warning  into  a  navigatoi 
whom  they  are  trying  to  follow  upon  the  map  as  he 
passes  through  certain  straits — namely,  those  of  the 
fever  —  towards  his  south-west  discovery,  Death. 
Grotesque  as  this  is,  the  absurdity  deepens  in  the 
end  of  the  next  stanza  by  a  return  to  the  former 
idea.  He  is  alternately  a  map  and  a  man  sailing 
on  the  map  of  himself.  But  the  first  half  of  the 
stanza  is  lovely  :  my  reader  must  remember  that  the 
region  of  the  West  was  at  that  time  the  Land  of 
Promise  to  England. 

I  joy  that  in  these  straits  I  see  my  West ; 

For  though  those  currents  yield  return  to  none, 
What  shall  my  West  hurt  me  ?     As  west  and  east 

In  all  flat  maps  (and  I  am  one)  are  one, 

So  death  doth  touch  the  resurrection. 

It  is  hardly  worth  while,  except  for  the  strangeness 
of  the  phenomenon,  to  spend  any  time  in  elucidating 
this.  Once  more  a  map,  he  is  that  of  the  two  hemi- 
spheres, in  which  the  east  of  the  one  touches  the 
west  of  the  other.  Could  anything  be  much  more 
unmusical  than  the  line,  "  In  all  flat  maps  (and  I 
am  one)  are  one"?     But  the  next  stanza  is  worse. 

Is  the  Pacific  sea  my  home  ?     Or  are 
The  eastern  riches  ?     Is  Jerusalem  ? 

Anvan,  and  Magellan,  and  Gibraltar  ? 

All  straits,  and  none  but  straits  are  ways  to  them, 
Whether  where  Japhet  dwelt,  or  Cham,  or  Sem. 

The  meaning  of  the   stanza  is  this :   there   is  no 


18  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


earthly  home :  all  these  places  are  only  straits  that 
lead  home,  just  as  they  themselves  cannot  be  reached 
but  through  straits. 

Let  my  reader  now  forget  all  but  the  first  stanza, 
and  take  it  along  with  the  following,  the  last  two : 

We  think  that  Paradise  and  Calvary, 

Christ's  cross  and  Adam's  tree,  stood  in  one  place  : 

Look,  Lord,  and  find  both  Adams  met  in  me ; 
As  the  first  Adam's  sweat  surrounds  my  face, 
May  the  last  Adam's  blood  my  soul  embrace. 

So,  in  his  purple  wrapped,  receive  me,  Lord  ; 
By  these  his  thorns  give  me  his  other  crown  ; 

And  as  to  others'  souls  I  preached  thy  word, 
Be  this  my  text,  my  sermon  to  mine  own : 
Therefore,  that  he  may  raise,  the  Lord  throws  down. 

Surely  these  are  very  fine,  especially  the  middle 
verse  of  the  former  and  the  first  verse  of  the  latter 
stanza.  The  three  stanzas  together  make  us  lovingly 
regret  that  Dr.  Donne  should  have  ridden  his  Pegasus 
over  quarry  and  housetop,  instead  of  teaching  him 
his  paces. 

The  next  I  quote  is  artistic  throughout.  Perhaps 
the  fact,  of  which  we  are  informed  by  Izaak  Walton, 
"  that  he  caused  it  to  be  set  to  a  grave  and  solemn 
tune,  and  to  be  often  sung  to  the  organ  by  the 
choristers  of  St.  Paul's  church  in  his  own  hearing, 
especially  at  the  evening  service,"  may  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  its  degree  of  perfection.  There  is 
no  sign  of  his  usual  haste  about  it.  It  is  even  ela- 
borately rhymed  after  Norman  fashion,  the  rhymes 
in  each  stanza  being  consonant  with  the  rhymes  in 
every  stanza. 


DR.  DONNE'S  EVENING  HYMN.  119 


A  HYMN  TO  GOD  THE  FATHER. 

Wilt  thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 

Which  was  my  sin,  though  it  were  done  before  ?  * 
Wilt  thou  forgive  that  sin,  through  which  I  mn,2 
And  do  run  still,  though  still  I  do  deplore  ? — 
When  thou  hast  done,  thou  hast  not  done  ; 
For  I  have  more. 

Wilt  thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  have  won 

Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sins  their  door  ?  ■ 
Wilt  thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  did  shun 
A  year  or  two,  but  wallowed  in  a  score  ? — 
When  thou  hast  done,  thou  hast  not  done ; 
For  I  have  more. 

I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  I've  spun 

My  last  thread,  I  shall  perish  on  the  shore  ; 
But  swear  by  thyself,  that  at  my  death  thy  Son 
Shall  shine,  as  he  shines  now  and  heretofore  ; 
And  having  done  that,  thou  hast  done  : 
I  fear  no  more. 

In  those  days  even  a  pun  might  be  a  serious  thing : 
witness  the  play  in  the  last  stanza  on  the  words  son 
and  sun — not  a  mere  pun,  for  the  Son  of  the  Father 
is  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  :  he  is  Life  aitd  Light. 

What  the  Doctor  himself  says  concerning  the 
hymn,  appears  to  me  not  only  interesting  but  of 
practical  value.  He  "  did  occasionally  say  to  a  friend, 
'  The  words  of  this  hymn  have  restored  to  me  the 
same  thoughts  of  joy  that  possessed  my  soul  in  my 
sickness,  when   I    composed   it."'      What  a   help   it 

1  The  guilt  of  Adam's  first  sin,  supposed  by  the  theologians  of  Dt 
Donne's  time  to  be  imputed  to  Adam's  descendants. 

2  The  past  tense  :  ran. 

3  Their  door  to  enter  into  sin — by  his  example. 


120  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

would  be  to  many,  if  in  their  more  gloomy  times 
they  would  but  recall  the  visions  of  truth  they  had, 
and  were  assured  of,  in  better  moments ! 

Here    is    a    somewhat   strange   hymn,   which  yet 
possesses,  rightly  understood,  a  real  grandeur : 

A  HYMN  TO  CHRIST 

At  the  Author's  last  going  into  Germany,  i 

In  what  torn  ship  soever  I  embark, 
That  ship  shall  be  my  emblem  of  thy  ark  j 
What  sea  soever  swallow  me,  that  flood 
Shall  be  to  me  an  emblem  of  thy  blood. 
Though  thou  with  clouds  of  anger  do  disguise 
Thy  face,  yet  through  that  mask  I  know  those  eyes, 
Which,  though  they  turn  away  sometimes — 
They  never  will  despise. 

I  sacrifice  this  island  unto  thee, 
And  all  whom  I  love  here  and  who  love  me  : 
When  I  have  put  this  flood  'twixt  them  and  me, 
Put  thou  thy  blood  betwixt  my  sins  and  thee. 
As  the  tree's  sap  doth  seek  the  root  below 
In  winter,  in  my  winter  2  now  I  go 
Where  none  but  thee,  the  eternal  root 
Of  true  love,  I  may  know. 

Nor  thou,  nor  thy  religion,  dost  control 
The  amorousness  of  an  harmonious  soul ; 
But  thou  wouldst  have  that  love  thyself :  as  thou 
Art  jealous,  Lord,  so  I  am  jealous  now. 
Thou  lov'st  not,  till  from  loving  more  thou  free 
My  soul :  who  ever  gives,  takes  liberty : 
Oh,  if  thou  car'st  not  whom  I  love, 
Alas,  thou  lov'st  not  me  1 

i  He  was  sent  by  James  I.  to  assist  an  embassy  to  the  Elector  Pala- 
tine, who  had  married  his  daughter  Elizabeth. 

2  He  had  lately  lost  his  wife,  for  whom  he  had  a  rare  love. 


DR.  DONNE:  HIS  HOLY  SONNETS.  121 

Seal  then  this  bill  of  my  divorce  to  all 
On  whom  those  fainter  beams  of  love  did  fall ; 
Marry  those  loves,  which  in  youth  scattered  be 
On  face,  wit,  hopes,  (false  mistresses),  to  thee. 
Churches  are  best  for  prayer  that  have  least  light : 
To  see  God  only,  I  go  out  of  sight ; 
And,  to  'scape  stormy  days,  I  choose 
An  everlasting  night. 

To  do  justice  to  this  poem,  the  reader  must  take 
some  trouble  to  enter  into  the  poet's  mood. 

It  is  in  a  measure  distressing  that,  while  I  grant 
with  all  my  heart  the  claim  of  his  "  Muse's  white 
sincerity,"  the  taste  in — I  do  not  say  of — some  of  his 
best  poems  should  be  such  that  I  will  not  present 
them. 

Out  of  twenty-three  Holy  Sonnets,  every  one  of 
which,  I  should  almost  say,  possesses  something  re- 
markable, I  choose  three.  Rhymed  after  the  true 
Petrarchian  fashion,  their  rhythm  is  often  as  bad  as 
it  can  be  to  be  called  rhythm  at  all.  Yet  these  are 
very  fine. 

Thou  hast  made  me,  and  shall  thy  work  decay  ? 

Repair  me  now,  for  now  mine  end  doth  haste  ; 

I  run  to  death,  and  death  meets  me  as  fast, 
And  all  my  pleasures  are  like  yesterday. 
I  dare  not  move  my  dim  eyes  any  way, 

Despair  behind,  and  death  before  doth  cast 

Such  terror  ;  and  my  feeble  flesh  doth  waste 
By  sin  in  it,  which  it  towards  hell  doth  weigh. 
Only  thou  art  above,  and  when  towards  thee 

By  thy  leave  I  can  look,  I  rise  again  ; 
But  our  old  subtle  foe  so  tempteth  me, 

That  not  one  hour  myself  I  can  sustain  : 
Thy  grace  may  wing  me  to  prevent  his  art, ! 
And  thou  like  adamant  draw  mine  iron  heart 
11 


122  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


If  faithful  souls  be  alike  glorified 

As  angels,  then  my  father's  soul  doth  see, 
And  adds  this  even  to  full  felicity, 

That  valiantly  I  hell's  wide  mouth  o'erstride  : 

But  if  our  minds  to  these  souls  be  descried 
By  circumstances  and  by  signs  that  be 
Apparent  in  us — not  immediately1 — 

How  shall  my  mind's  white  truth  by  them  be  tried  ? 
They  see  idolatrous  lovers  weep  and  mourn, 

And,  style  blasphemous,  conjurors  to  call 

On  Jesu's  name,  and  pharisaical 

Dissemblers  feign  devotion.     Then  turn, 

O  pensive  soul,  to  God  ;  for  he  knows  best 

Thy  grief,  for  he  put  it  into  my  breast. 


Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called  thee 

Mighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so  ; 

For  those  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost  overthrow, 
Die  not,  poor  Death  ;  nor  yet  canst  thou  kill  me. 
From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  picture  be, 

Much  pleasure,  then  from  thee  much  more  must  flow  ; 

And  soonest2  our  best  men  with  thee  do  go, 
Rest  of  their  bones,  and  soul's  delivery  ! 

Thou'rt  slave  to  fate,  chance,  kings,  and  desperate  men, 
And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness  dwell ; 
And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep  as  well, 

And  better  than  thy  stroke.    Why  swell'st3  thou  then  ? 
One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally, 
And  death  shall  be  no  more  :  Death,  thou  shalt  die. 

In  a  poem  called  The  Cross,  full  of  fantastic  con- 
ceits, we  find  the  following  remarkable  lines,  embo- 
dying the  profoundest  truth. 

As  perchance  carvers  do  not  faces  make, 
But  that  away,  which  hid  them  there,  do  take  : 
Let  crosses  so  take  what  hid  Christ  in  thee, 
And  be  his  image,  or  not  his,  but  he. 

X  "If  they  know  us  not  by  intuition,  but  by  judging  from  circumstances 
and  signs." 

8  "  With  most  willingness."  *  "  Art  proud." 


RESURRECTION.  123 


One  more,  and  we  shall  take  our  leave  of  Dr. 
Donne.  It  is  called  a  fragment ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
complete.  It  will  serve  as  a  specimen  of  his  best 
and  at  the  same  time  of  his  most  characteristic  mode 
of  presenting  fine  thoughts  grotesquely  attired. 

RESURRECTION. 

Sleep,  sleep,  old  sun ;  thou  canst  not  have  re-past * 
As  yet  the  wound  thou  took'st  on  Friday  last. 
Sleep  then,  and  rest :  the  world  may  bear  thy  stay ; 
A  better  sun  rose  before  thee  to-day  ; 
Who,  not  content  to  enlighten  all  that  dwell 
On  the  earth's  face  as  thou,  enlightened  hell, 
And  made  the  dark  fires  languish  in  that  vale, 
As  at  thy  presence  here  our  fires  grow  pale  ; 
Whose  body,  having  walked  on  earth  and  now 
Hastening  to  heaven,  would,  that  he  might  allow 
Himself  unto  all  stations  and  fill  all, 
For  these  three  days  become  a  mineral. 
He  was  all  gold  when  he  lay  down,  but  rose 
All  tincture  ;  and  doth  not  alone  dispose 
Leaden  and  iron  wills  to  good,  but  is 
Of  power  to  make  even  sinful  flesh  like  his. 
Had  one  of  those,  whose  credulous  piety 
Thought  that  a  soul  one  might  discern  and  see 
Go  from  a  body,  at  this  sepulchre  been, 
And  issuing  from  the  sheet  this  body  seen, 
He  would  have  justly  thought  this  body  a  soul, 
If  not  of  any  man,  yet  of  the  whole. 

What  a  strange  mode  of  saying  that  he  is  our 
head,  the  captain  of  our  salvation,  the  perfect  hu- 
manity in  which  our  life  is  hid  !  Yet  it  has  its 
dignity.     When  one  has  got  over  the  oddity  of  these 

1  A  strange  use  of  the  word ;  but  it  evidently  means  recovered,  and 
has  some  analogy  with  the  French  repasser. 


124  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


last  six  lines,  the  figure  contained  in  them  shows  itself 
almost  grand. 

As  an  individual  specimen  of  the  grotesque  form 
holding  a  fine  sense,  regard  for  a  moment  the  words, 

He  was  all  gold  when  he  lay  down,  but  rose 
All  tincture  ; 

which  means,  that,  entirely  good  when  he  died,  he 
was  something  yet  greater  when  he  rose,  for  he  had 
gained  the  power  of  making  others  good :  the  tincture 
intended  here  was  a  substance  whose  touch  would 
turn  the  basest  metal  into  gold. 

Through  his  poems  are  scattered  many  fine  pas- 
sages ;  but  not  even  his  large  influence  on  the  better 
poets  who  followed  is  sufficient  to  justify  our  listening 
to  him  longer  now. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

BISHOP   HALL  AND   GEORGE  SANDYS. 

Joseph  Hall,  born  in  1574,  a  year  after  Dr.  Donne, 
bishop,  first  of  Exeter,  next  of  Norwich,  is  best  known 
by  his  satires.  It  is  not  for  such  that  I  can  mention 
him :  the  most  honest  satire  can  claim  no  place 
amongst  religious  poems.  It  is  doubtful  if  satire  ever 
did  any  good.  Its  very  language  is  that  of  the  half- 
brute  from  which  it  is  well  named. 

Here  are  three  poems,  however,  which  the  bishop 
wrote  for  his  choir. 

ANTHEM  FOR  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  EXETER. 

Lord,  what  am  I  ?    A  worm,  dust,  vapour,  nothing  ! 

What  is  my  life  ?    A  dream,  a  daily  dying  ! 
What  is  my  flesh  ?    My  soul's  uneasy  clothing  ! 
What  is  my  time  ?    A  minute  ever  flying  : 
My  time,  my  flesh,  my  life,  and  I, 
What  are  we,  Lord,  but  vanity? 

Where  am  I,  Lord  ?    Down  in  a  vale  of  death. 

What  is  my  trade  ?    Sin,  my  dear  God  offending  ; 
My  sport  sin  too,  my  stay  a  puff  of  breath. 
What  end  of  sin  ?    Hell's  horror  never  ending  : 
My  way,  my  trade,  sport,  stay,  and  place, 
Help  to  make  up  my  doleful  case. 
11* 


1 26  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 


Lord,  what  art  thou  ?     Pure  life,  power,  beauty,  bliss. 

Where  dwell'st  thou  ?     Up  above  in  perfect  light. 
What  is  thy  time  ?     Eternity  it  is. 

What  state  ?    Attendance  of  each  glorious  sprite  : 
Thyself,  thy  place,  thy  days,  thy  state 
Pass  all  the  thoughts  of  powers  create. 

How  shall  I  reach  thee,  Lord  ?     Oh,  soar  above, 
Ambitious  soul.     But  which  way  should  I  fly  ? 
Thou,  Lord,  art  way  and  end.     What  wings  have  I  ? 
Aspiring  thoughts — of  faith,  of  hope,  of  love : 
Oh,  let  these  wings,  that  way  alone 
Present  me  to  thy  blissful  throne. 

FOR  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

Immortal  babe,  who  this  dear  day 
Didst  change  thine  heaven  for  our  clay, 
And  didst  with  flesh  thy  Godhead  veil, 
Eternal  Son  of  God,  all  hail ! 

Shine,  happy  star  !     Ye  angels,  sing 

Glory  on  high  to  heaven's  king  ! 

Run,  shepherds,  leave  your  nightly  watch  ! 

See  heaven  come  down  to  Bethlehem's  cratch  !    manger. 

Worship,  ye  sages  of  the  east, 

The  king  of  gods  in  meanness  drest ! 

O  blessed  maid,  smile,  and  adore 

The  God  thy  womb  and  arms  have  bore  ! 

Star,  angels,  shepherds,  and  wise  sages  ! 
Thou  virgin -glory  of  all  ages! 
Restored  frame  of  heaven  and  earth  ! 
Joy  in  your  dear  Redeemer's  birth. 


Leave,  O  my  soul,  this  baser  world  below  ; 

O  leave  this  doleful  dungeon  of  woe ; 

And  soar  aloft  to  that  supernal  rest 

That  maketh  all  the  saints  and  angels  blest : 
Lo,  there  the  Godhead's  radiant  throne, 
Like  to  ten  thousand  suns  in  one ! 


THE  HAPPY-MAKING  SIGHT.  127 

Lo,  there  thy  Saviour  dear,  in  glory  dight,  dressed. 

Adored  of  all  the  powers  of  heavens  bright  ! 
Lo,  where  that  head  that  bled  with  thorny  wound, 
Shines  ever  with  celestial  honour  crowned  ! 

That  hand  that  held  the  scornful  reed 

Makes  all  the  fiends  infernal  dread. 

That  back  and  side  that  ran  with  bloody  streams 
Daunt  angels'  eyes  with  their  majestic  beams  ; 
Those  feet,  once  fastened  to  the  cursed  tree, 
Trample  on  Death  and  Hell,  in  glorious  glee. 
Those  lips,  once  drenched  with  gall,  do  make 
With  their  dread  doom  the  world  to  quake. 

Behold  those  joys  thou  never  canst  behold  ; 
Those  precious  gates  of  pearl,  those  streets  ot  gold, 
Those  streams  of  life,  those  trees  of  Paradise 
That  never  can  be  seen  by  mortal  eyes  ! 

And  when  thou  seest  this  state  divine, 

Think  that  it  is  or  shall  be  thine. 

See  there  the  happy  troops  of  purest  sprites 
That  live  above  in  endless  true  delights ! 
And  see  where  once  thyself  shalt  ranged  be, 
And  look  and  long  for  immortality  ! 

And  now  beforehand  help  to  sing 

Hallelujahs  to  heaven's  king. 

Polished  as  these  are  in  comparison  to  those  of 
Dr.  Donne,  and  fine,  too,  as  they  are  intrinsically, 
there  are  single  phrases  in  his  that  are  worth  them 
all — except,  indeed,  that  one  splendid  line, 

Trample  on  Death  and  Hell  in  glorious  glee. 

George  Sandys,  the  son  of  an  archbishop  of  York, 
and  born  in  1577,  is  better  known  by  his  travels  in 
the  east  than  by  his  poetry.  But  his  version  of  the 
Psalms  is  in  good  and  various  verse,  not  unfrequently 


128  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

graceful,  sometimes  fine.  The  following  is  not  only 
in  a  popular  rhythm,  but  is  neat  and  melodious  as 
well. 

PSALM  XCII. 

Thou  who  art  enthroned  above, 

Thou  by  whom  we  live  and  move, 

O  how  sweet,  how  excellent 

Is't  with  tongue  and  heart's  consent, 

Thankful  hearts  and  joyful  tongues, 

To  renown  thy  name  in  songs  ! 

"When  the  morning  paints  the  skies, 

When  the  sparkling  stars  arise, 

Thy  high  favours  to  rehearse, 

Thy  firm  faith,  in  grateful  verse  ! 

Take  the  lute  and  violin, 

Let  the  solemn  harp  begin, 

Instruments  strung  with  ten  strings, 

While  the  silver  cymbal  rings. 

From  thy  works  my  joy  proceeds  ; 

How  I  triumph  in  thy  deeds  ! 

Who  thy  wonders  can  express  ? 

All  thy  thoughts  are  fathomless — 

Hid  from  men  in  knowledge  blind, 

Hid  from  fools  to  vice  inclined. 

Who  that  tyrant  sin  obey, 

Though  they  spring  like  flowers  in  May — 

Parched  with  heat,  and  nipt  with  frost, 

Soon  shall  fade,  for  ever  lost. 

Lord,  thou  art  most  great,  most  high ; 

Such  from  all  eternity. 

Perish  shall  thy  enemies, 

Rebels  that  against  thee  rise. 

All  who  in  their  sins  delight, 

Shall  be  scattered  by  thy  might. 

But  thou  shalt  exalt  my  horn 

Like  a  youthful  unicorn, 

Fresh  and  fragrant  odours  shed 

On  thy  crowned  prophet's  head. 


GEORGE  SANDYS:  HIS  PSALMS.  129 


I  shall  see  my  foes'  defeat, 

Shortly  hear  of  their  retreat ; 

But  the  just  like  palms  shall  flourish 

Which  the  plains  of  Judah  nourish, 

Like  tall  cedars  mounted  on 

Cloud-ascending  Lebanon. 

Plants  set  in  thy  court,  below 

Spread  their  roots,  and  upwards  grow ; 

Fruit  in  their  old  age  shall  bring, 

Ever  fat  and  flourishing. 

This  God's  justice  celebrates  : 

He,  my  rock,  injustice  hates. 


PSALM    CXXIII. 

Thou  mover  of  the  rolling  spheres, 
I,  through  the  glasses  of  my  tears, 

To  thee  my  eyes  erect. 
As  servants  mark  their  master's  hands, 
As  maids  their  mistress's  commands, 

And  liberty  expect, 

So  we,  depressed  by  enemies 
And  growing  troubles,  fix  our  eyes 

On  God,  who  sits  on  high  ; 
Till  he  in  mercy  shall  descend, 
To  give  our  miseries  an  end, 

And  turn  our  tears  to  joy. 

O  save  us,  Lord,  by  all  forlorn, 
The  subject  of  contempt  and  scorn  : 

Defend  us  from  their  pride 
Who  live  in  fluency  and  ease, 
Who  with  our  woes  their  malice  please, 

And  miseries  deride. 

Here  is  a  part  of  the  66th  Psalm,  which  makes  a 
complete  little  song  of  itself : 

S.L.  IV.  k 


130  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

Bless  the  Lord.     His  praise  be  sung 

While  an  ear  can  hear  a  tongue. 

He  our  feet  establisheth ; 

He  our  souls  redeems  from  death. 

Lord,  as  silver  purified, 

Thou  hast  with  affliction  tried, 

Thou  hast  driven  into  the  net, 

Burdens  on  our  shoulders  set. 

Trod  on  by  their  horses'  hooves, 

Theirs  whom  pity  never  moves, 

We  through  fire,  with  flames  embraced, 

We  through  raging  floods  have  passed, 

Yet  by  thy  conducting  hand, 

Brought  into  a  wealthy  land. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A   FEW   OF  THE   ELIZABETHAN   DRAMATISTS. 

FROM  the  nature  of  their  adopted  mode,  we  cannot 
look  for  much  poetry  of  a  devotional  kind  from  the 
dramatists.  That  mode  admitting  of  no  utterance 
personal  to  the  author,  and  requiring  the  scope  of  a 
play  to  bring  out  the  intended  truth,  it  is  no  wonder 
that,  even  in  the  dramas  of  Shakspere,  profound  as 
is  the  teaching  they  contain,  we  should  find  nothing 
immediately  suitable  to  our  purpose ;  while  neither 
has  he  left  anything  in  other  form  approaching  in 
kind  what  we  seek.  Ben  Jonson,  however,  born  in 
1574,  who  may  be  regarded  as  the  sole  representative 
of  learning  in  the  class,  has  left,  amongst  a  large 
number  of  small  pieces,  three  Poems  of  Devotion, 
whose  merit  may  not  indeed  be  great,  but  whose 
feeling  is,  I  think,  genuine.  Whatever  were  his  faults, 
and  they  were  not  few,  hypocrisy  was  not  one  of 
them.  His  nature  was  fierce  and  honest.  He  might 
boast,  but  he  could  not  pretend.  His  oscillation 
between  the  reformed  and  the  Romish  church  can 
hardly  have  had  other  cause  than  a  vacillating 
conviction.     It  could  not  have  served  any  prudential 

K  2 


1 32  ENGLAND  *S  ANTIPHON 


end  that  we  can  see,  to  turn  catholic  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  while  in  prison  for  killing  in  a  duel  a  player 
who  had  challenged  him. 

THE  SINNER'S  SACRIFICE. 

I. — TO   THE   HOLY   TRINITY. 

0  holy,  blessed,  glorious  Trinity 
Of  persons,  still  one  God  in  Unity, 
The  faithful  man's  believed  mystery, 

Help,  help  to  lift 
Myself  up  to  thee,  harrowed,  torn,  and  bruised 
By  sin  and  Satan,  and  my  flesh  misused. 
As  my  heart  lies— in  pieces,  all  confused — 

O  take  my  gift. 
All-gracious  God,  the  sinner's  sacrifice, 
A  broken  heart,  thou  wert  not  wont  despise, 
But,  'bove  the  fat  of  rams  or  bulls,  to  prize 

An  offering  meet 
For  thy  acceptance :  Oh,  behold  me  right, 
And  take  compassion  on  my  grievous  plight ! 
What  odour  can  be,  than  a  heart  contrite, 

To  thee  more  sweet  ? 
Eternal  Father,  God,  who  didst  create 
This  All  of  nothing,  gav'st  it  form  and  fate, 
And  breath'st  into  it  life  and  light,  with  state 

To  worship  thee  ! 
Eternal  God  the  Son,  who  not  deniedst 
To  take  our  nature,  becam'st  man,  and  diedst, 
To  pay  our  debts,  upon  thy  cross,  and  criedst 

AWs  done  in  me! 
Eternal  Spirit,  God  from  both  proceeding, 
Father  and  Son — the  Comforter,  in  breeding 
Pure  thoughts  in  man,  with  fiery  zeal  them  feeding 

For  acts  of  grace  ! 
Increase  those  acts,  O  glorious  Trinity 
Of  persons,  still  one  God  in  Unity, 
Till  I  attain  the  longed-for  mystery 

Of  seeing  your  face, 


BEN  JONSON'S  HYMNS.  133 


Beholding  one  in  three,  and  three  in  one, 

A  Trinity,  to  shine  in  Union — 

The  gladdest  light,  dark  man  can  think  upon — 

O  grant  it  me, 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  you  three, 
All  co-eternal  in  your  majesty, 
Distinct  in  persons,  yet  in  unity 

One  God  to  see ; 

My  Maker,  Saviour,  and  my  Sanctifier, 
To  hear,  to  mediate, 1  sweeten  my  desire, 
With  grace,  with  love,  with  cherishing  entire  ! 

O  then,  how  blest 
Among  thy  saints  elected  to  abide, 
And  with  thy  angels  placed,  side  by  side  ! 
But  in  thy  presence  truly  glorified, 

Shall  I  there  rest  ! 

2.— AN    HYMN    TO   GOD   THE   FATHER. 

Hear  me,  O  God  ! 

A  broken  heart 

Is  my  best  part  : 
Use  still  thy  rod, 

That  I  may  prove 

Therein  thy  love. 

If  thou  hadst  not 

Been  stern  to  me, 

But  left  me  free, 
I  had  forgot 

Myself  and  thee. 

For  sin's  so  sweet 

As  minds  ill  bent  that. 

Rarely  repent 
Until  they  meet 

Their  punishment. 

Who  more  can  crave 
Than  thou  hast  done  ? 
Thou  gav'st  a  Son 

1   To  understood  :  to  sweeten. 
12 


134  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON 

To  free  a  slave, 

First  made  of  nought, 
With  all  since  bought. 

Sin,  death,  and  hell 

His  glorious  name 

Quite  overcame ; 
Yet  I  rebel, 

And  slight  the  same. 

But  I'll  come  in 

Before  my  loss 

Me  farther  toss, 
As  sure  to  win 

Under  his  cross. 

3.— AN   HYMN   ON   THE   NATIVITY   OF   MY   SAVIOUR. 

I  sing  the  birth  was  born  to-night, 
The  author  both  of  life  and  light ; 

The  angels  so  did  sound  it. 
And  like  the  ravished  shepherds  said, 
Who  saw  the  light,  and  were  afraid, 

Yet  searched,  and  true  they  found  it. 

The  Son  of  God,  the  eternal  King, 
That  did  us  all  salvation  bring, 

And  freed  the  soul  from  danger ; 
He  whom  the  whole  world  could  not  take, 
The  Word  which  heaven  and  earth  did  make, 

Was  now  laid  in  a  manger. 

The  Father's  wisdom  willed  it  so  ; 
The  Son's  obedience  knew  no  No ; 

Both  wills  were  in  one  stature  ; 
And,  as  that  wisdom  had  decreed, 
The  Word  was  now  made  flesh  indeed, 

And  took  on  him  our  nature. 

What  comfort  by  him  do  we  win, 
Who  made  himself  the  price  of  sin, 

To  make  us  heirs  of  glory  ! 
To  see  this  babe,  all  innocence, 
A  martyr  born  in  our  defence  ! — 

Can  man  forget  this  story  ? 


HEYWOOD'S  HIERARCHY. 


135 


Somewhat  formal  and  artificial,  no  doubt ;  rugged 
at  the  same  time,  like  him  who  wrote  them.  When 
a  man  would  utter  that  concerning  which  he  has  only 
felt,  not  thought,  he  can  express  himself  only  in  the 
forms  he  has  been  taught,  conventional  or  traditional. 
Let  his  powers  be  ever  so  much  developed  in  respect 
of  other  things,  here,  where  he  has  not  meditated, 
he  must  understand  as  a  child,  think  as  a  child, 
speak  as  a  child.  He  can  as  yet  generate  no  sufficing 
or  worthy  form  natural  to  himself.  But  the  utterance 
is  not  therefore  untrue.  There  was  no  professional 
bias  to  cause  the  stream  of  Ben  Jonson's  verses  to 
flow  in  that  channel.  Indeed,  feeling  without  thought, 
and  the  consequent  combination  of  impulse  to  speak 
with  lack  of  matter,  is  the  cause  of  much  of  that 
common-place  utterance  concerning  things  of  religion 
which  is  so  wearisome,  but  which  therefore  it  is  not 
always  fair  to  despise  as  cant. 

About  the  same  age  as  Ben  Jonson,  though  the 
date  of  his  birth  is  unknown,  I  now  come  to  men- 
tion Thomas  Heywood,  a  most  voluminous  writer  of 
plays,  who  wrote  also  a  book,  chiefly  in  verse,  called 
The  Hierarchy  of  the  Blessed  A  ngels,  a  strange  work, 
in  which,  amongst  much  that  is  far  from  poetic,  occur 
the  following  remarkable  metaphysico-reiigious  verses. 
He  had  strong  Platonic  tendencies,  interesting  himself 
chiefly  however  in  those  questions  afterwards  pursued 
by  Dr.  Henry  More,  concerning  witches  and  such  like 
subjects,  which  may  be  called  the  shadow  of  Platonism. 

I  have  wandered  like  a  sheep  that's  lost, 
To  find  Thee  out  in  every  coast : 


136  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Without  I  have  long  seeking  bin,  been. 

Whilst  thou,  the  while,  abid'st  within. 

Through  every  broad  street  and  strait  lane 

Of  this  world's  city,  but  in  vain, 

I  have  enquired.     The  reason  why? 

I  sought  thee  ill :  for  how  could  I 

Find  thee  abroad,  when  thou,  mean  space, 

Hadst  made  within  thy  dwelling-place  ? 

I  sent  my  messengers  about, 
To  try  if  they  could  find  thee  out ; 
But  all  was  to  no  purpose  still, 
Because  indeed  they  sought  thee  ill : 
For  how  could  they  discover  thee 
That  saw  not  when  thou  entered'st  me? 

Mine  eyes  could  tell  me  ?    If  he  were* 
Not  coloured,  sure  he  came  not  there. 
If  not  by  sound,  my  ears  could  say 
He  doubtless  did  not  pass  my  way. 
My  nose  could  nothing  of  him  tell, 
Because  my  God  he  did  not  smell. 
None  such  I  relished,  said  my  taste, 
And  therefore  me  he  never  passed. 
My  feeling  told  me  that  none  such 
There  entered,  for  he  none  did  touch. 
Resolved  by  them  how  should  I  be, 
Since  none  of  all  these  are  in  thee, 

In  thee,  my  God  ?    Thou  hast  no  hue 
That  man's  frail  optic  sense  can  view ; 
No  sound  the  ear  hears ;  odour  none 
The  smell  attracts  ;  all  taste  is  gone 
At  thy  appearance  ;  where  doth  fail 
A  body,  how  can  touch  prevail  ? 
What  even  the  brute  beasts  comprehend — 
To  think  thee  such,  I  should  offend. 

Yet  when  I  seek  my  God,  I  enquire 
For  light  than  sun  and  moon  much  higher, 
More  clear  and  splendrous,  'bove  all  light 
Which  the  eye  receives  not,  'tis  so  bright. 


POETRY  AND  PHILOSOPHY.  137 

I  seek  a  voice  beyond  degree 

Of  all  melodious  harmony  : 

The  ear  conceives  it  not ;  a  smell 

Which  doth  all  other  scents  excel : 

No  flower  so  sweet,  no  myrrh,  no  nard, 

Or  aloes,  with  it  compared  ; 

Of  which  the  brain  not  sensible  is. 

I  seek  a  sweetness — such  a  bliss 

As  hath  all  other  sweets  surpassed, 

And  never  palate  yet  could  taste. 

I  seek  that  to  contain  and  hold 

No  touch  can  feel,  no  embrace  enfold. 

So  far  this  light  the  rays  extends, 

As  that  no  place  it  comprehends. 

So  deep  this  sound,  that  though  it  speak 

It  cannot  by  a  sense  so  weak 

Be  entertained.     A  redolent  grace 

The  air  blows  not  from  place  to  place. 

A  pleasant  taste,  of  that  delight 

It  doth  confound  all  appetite. 

A  strict  embrace,  not  felt,  yet  leaves 

That  virtue,  where  it  takes  it  cleaves. 

This  light,  this  sound,  this  savouring  grace, 

This  tasteful  sweet,  this  strict  embrace, 

No  place  contains,  no  eye  can  see, 

My  God  is,  and  there's  none  but  he. 

Very  remarkable  verses  from  a  dramatist !  They 
indicate  substratum  enough  for  any  art  if  only  the  art 
be  there.  Even  those  who  cannot  enter  into  the  phi- 
losophy of  them,  which  ranks  him  among  the  mystics 
of  whom  I  have  yet  to  speak,  will  understand  a  good 
deal  of  it  symbolically :  for  how  could  he  be  expected 
to  keep  his  poetry  and  his  philosophy  distinct  when 
of  themselves  they  were  so  ready  to  run  into  one  ;  or 
in  verse  to  define  carefully  betwixt  degree  and  kind, 
when  kinds  themselves  may  rise  by  degrees  ?     To 

12* 


138  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

distinguish  without  separating ;  to  be  able  to  see  that 
what  in  their  effects  upon  us  are  quite  different,  may 
yet  be  a  grand  flight  of  ascending  steps,  "  to  stop — no 
record  hath  told  where,"  belongs  to  the  philosopher 
who  is  not  born  mutilated,  but  is  a  poet  as  well. 

John  Fletcher,  likewise  a  dramatist,  the  author  of 
the  following  poem,  was  two  years  younger  than  Ben 
Jonson.  It  is,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  the  sole  non- 
dramatic  voice  he  has  left  behind  him.  Its  opening 
is  an  indignant  apostrophe  to  certain  men  of  pre- 
tended science,  who  in  his  time  were  much  consulted 
— the  Astrologers. 

UPON  AN  HONEST  MAN'S  FORTUNE. 

You  that  can  look  through  heaven,  and  tell  the  stars; 

Observe  their  kind  conjunctions,  and  their  wars  ; 

Find  out  new  lights,  and  give  them  where  you  please — 

To  those  men  honours,  pleasures,  to  those  ease  ; 

You  that  are  God's  surveyors,  and  can  show 

How  far,  and  when,  and  why  the  wind  doth  blow; 

Know  all  the  charges  of  the  dreadful  thunder, 

And  when  it  will  shoot  over,  or  fall  under  ; 

Tell  me — by  all  your  art  I  conjure  ye — 

Yes,  and  by  truth — what  shall  become  of  me. 

Find  out  my  star,  if  each  one,  as  you  say, 

Have  his  peculiar  angel,  and  his  way  ; 

Observe  my  fate  ;  next  fall  into  your  dreams  ; 

Sweep  clean  your  houses,  and  new-line  your  schemes  ;  * 

Then  say  your  worst.     Or  have  I  none  at  all  ? 

Or  is  it  burnt  out  lately  ?  or  did  fall  ? 

Or  am  I  poor  ?  not  able  ?  no  full  flame  ? 

Mystar,  like  me,  unworthy  of  a  name? 

1  He  plays  upon  the  astrological  terms,  houses  and  schemes.  The 
astrologers  divided  the  heavens  into  twelve  houses ;  and  the  diagrams  by 
which  they  represented  the  relative  positions  of  the  heavenly  bodies, 
they  called  schemes. 


AN  HONEST  MAN'S  FORTUNE.  139 


Is  it  your  art  can  only  work  on  those 
That  deal  with  dangers,  dignities,  and  clothes, 
With  love,  or  new  opinions  ?     You  all  lie  : 
A  fishwife  hath  a  fate,  and  so  have  I — 
But  far  above  your  fi.iding.     He  that  gives, 
Out  of  his  providence,  to  all  that  lives — 

And  no  man  knows  his  treasure,  no,  not  you ; — 

*  *  *  *  * 

He  that  made  all  the  stars  you  daily  read, 
And  from  them  filch  a  knowledge  how  to  feed, 
Hath  hid  this  from  you.     Your  conjectures  all 
Are  drunken  things,  not  how,  but  when  they  fall: 
Man  is  his  own  star,  and  the  soul  that  can 
Render  an  honest,  and  a  perfect  man, 
Commands  all  light,  all  influence,  all  fate  ; 
Nothing  to  him  falls  early,  or  too  late. 
Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still ; 
And  when  the  stars  are  labouring,  we  believe 
It  is  not  that  they  govern,  but  they  grieve 
For  stubborn  ignorance.     All  things  that  are 
Made  for  our  general  uses,  are  at  war — 
Even  we  among  ourselves  ;  and  from  the  strife 
Your  first  unlike  opinions  got  a  life. 
Oh  man  !  thou  image  of  thy  Maker's  good, 
What  canst  thou  fear,  when  breathed  into  thy  blood 
His  spirit  is  that  built  thee  ?     What  dull  sense 
Makes  thee  suspect,  in  need,  that  Providence  ? 
Who  made  the  morning,  and  who  placed  the  light 
Guide  to  thy  labours?     Who  called  up  the  night, 
And  bid  her  fall  upon  thee  like  sweet  showers 
In  hollow  murmurs,  to  lock  up  thy  powers  ? 
Who  gave  thee  knowledge  ?     Who  so  trusted  thee, 
To  let  thee  grow  so  near  himself,  the  Tree  ? 1 
Must  he  then  be  distrusted  ?     Shall  his  frame 
Discourse  with  him  why  thus  and  thus  I  am  ? 
He  made  the  angels  thine,  thy  fellows  all ; 
Nay,  even  thy  servants,  when  devotions  call. 
Oh  !  canst  thou  be  so  stupid  then,  so  dim, 
To  seek  a  saving  influence,  and  lose  him  ? 

1  The  tree  of  knowledge. 


UO  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Can  stars  protect  thee  ?    Or  can  poverty, 

Which  is  the  light  to  heaven,  put  out  his  eye  ? 

He  is  my  star ;  in  him  all  truth  I  find, 

All  influence,  all  fate  ;  and  when  my  mind 

Is  furnished  with  his  fulness,  my  poor  story 

Shall  outlive  all  their  age,  and  all  their  glory. 

The  hand  of  danger  cannot  fall  amiss 

When  I  know  what,  and  in  whose  power  it  is  ; 

Nor  want,  the  cause x  of  man,  shall  make  me  groan  : 

A  holy  hermit  is  a  mind  alone.2 

Doth  not  experience  teach  us,  all  we  can, 

To  work  ourselves  into  a  glorious  man  ? 

*  *  *  * 

My  mistress  then  be  knowledge  and  fair  truth  ; 

So  I  enjoy  all  beauty  and  all  youth  ! 

*  *  *  * 

Affliction,  when  I  know  it,  is  but  this— 

A  deep  alloy,  whereby  man  tougher  is 

To  bear  the  hammer  ;  and  the  deeper  still, 

We  still  arise  more  image  of  his  will ; 

Sickness,  an  humorous  cloud  'twixt  us  and  light;' 

And  death,  at  longest,  but  another  night. 

Man  is  his  own  star,  and  that  soul  that  can 

Be  honest,  is  the  only  perfect  man. 

There  is  a  tone  of  contempt  in  the  verses  which  is 
not  religious  ;  but  they  express  a  true  philosophy 
and  a  triumph  of  faith  in  God.  The  word  honest  is 
here  equivalent  to  true. 

I  am  not  certain  whether  I  may  not  now  be  calling 
up  a  singer  whose  song  will  appear  hardly  to  justify 
his  presence  in  the  choir.  But  its  teaching  is  of 
high  import,  namely,  of  content  and  cheerfulness 
and  courage,  and  being  both  worthy  and  melodious, 

1  Dyce,  following  Seward,  substitutes  curse. 

3  A  glimmer  of  that  Platonism  of  which,  happily,  we  have  so  much 
more  in  the  seventeenth  century. 


A  SONG  OF  LABOUR.  141 

it  gravitates  heavenward.  The  singer  is  yet  another 
dramatist :  I  presume  him  to  be  Thomas  Dekker.  I 
cannot  be  certain,  because  others  were  concerned  with 
him  in  the  writing  of  the  drama  from  which  I  take  it. 
He  it  is  who,  in  an  often-quoted  passage,  styles  our 
Lord  "  The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed ; " 
just  as  Chaucer,  in  a  poem  I  have  given,  calls  him 
"  The  first  stock-father  of  gentleness." 
We  may  call  the  little  lyric 

A  SONG  OF  LABOUR. 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  ? 

Oh,  sweet  content  ! 

Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed  ? 

Oh,  punishment ! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers  ? 
Oh,  sweet  content ! 
Chorus. — Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face. 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring  ? 
Oh,  sweet  content ! 
Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine  own  tears  ? 

Oh,  punishment ! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears, 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king  ! 
Oh,  sweet  content ! 
Chorus. — Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face. 

It  is  a  song  of  the  poor  in  spirit,  whose  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven.  But  if  my  co-listeners  prefer, 
we  will  call  it  the  voice,  not  of  one  who  sings  in  the 
choir,  but  of  one  who  "  tunes  his  instrument  at  the 
door." 


CHAPTER   X. 

SIR  JOHN   BEAUMONT  AND   DRUMMOND   OF   HAWTHORNDEN. 

Sir  John  Beaumont,  born  in  1582,  elder  brother 
to  the  dramatist  who  wrote  along  with  Fletcher,  has 
left  amongst  his  poems  a  few  fine  religious  ones. 
From  them  I  choose  the  following  : 

OF  THE  EPIPHANY. 

Fair  eastern  star,  that  art  ordained  to  run 

Before  the  sages,  to  the  rising  sun, 

Here  cease  thy  course,  and  wonder  that  the  cloud 

Of  this  poor  stable  can  thy  Maker  shroud  : 

Ye,  heavenly  bodies,  glory  to  be  bright, 

And  are  esteemed  as  ye  are  rich  in  light ; 

But  here  on  earth  is  taught  a  different  way, 

Since  under  this  low  roof  the  highest  lay. 

Jerusalem  erects  her  stately  towers, 

Displays  her  windows,  and  adorns  her  bowers  ; 

Yet  there  thou  must  not  cast  a  trembling  spark : 

Let  Herod's  palace  still  continue  dark ; 

Each  school  and  synagogue  thy  force  repels. 

There  Pride,  enthroned  in  misty  errors,  dwells ; 

The  temple,  where  the  priests  maintain  their  choir, 

Shall  taste  no  beam  of  thy  celestial  fire, 

While  this  weak  cottage  all  thy  splendour  takes  : 

A  joyful  gate  of  every  chink  it  makes. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  LIFE.  143 

Here  shines  no  golden  roof,  no  ivory  stair, 

No  king  exalted  in  a  stately  chair, 

Girt  with  attendants,  or  by  heralds  styled, 

But  straw  and  hay  enwrap  a  speechless  child  ; 

Yet  Saba;'s  lords  before  this  babe  unfold 

Their  treasures,  offering  incense,  myrrh,  and  gold. 

The  crib  becomes  an  altar  :  therefore  dies 

No  ox  nor  sheep ;  for  in  their  fodder  lies 

The  Prince  of  Peace,  who,  thankful  for  his  bed, 

Destroys  those  rites  in  which  their  blood  was  shed  : 

The  quintessence  of  earth  he  takes  and x  fees, 

And  precious  gums  distilled  from  weeping  trees  ; 

Rich  metals  and  sweet  odours  now  declare 

The  glorious  blessings  which  his  laws  prepare, 

To  clear  us  from  the  base  and  loathsome  flood 

Of  sense,  and  make  us  fit  for  angels'  food, 

Who  lift  to  God  for  us  the  holy  smoke 

Of  fervent  prayers  with  which  we  him  invoke, 

And  try  our  actions  in  that  searching  fire, 

By  which  the  seraphims  our  lips  inspire  : 

No  muddy  dross  pure  minerals  shall  infect, 

We  shall  exhale  our  vapours  up  direct  : 

No  storms  shall  cross,  nor  glittering  lights  deface 

Perpetual  sighs  which  seek  a  happy  place. 

The  creatures,  no  longer  offered  on  his  altar,  stand- 
ing around  the  Prince  of  Life,  to  whom  they  have 
given  a  bed,  is  a  lovely  idea.  The  end  is  hardly 
worthy  of  the  rest,  though  there  is  fine  thought  in- 
volved in  it. 

The  following  contains  an  utterance  of  personal 
experience,  the  truth  of  which  will  be  recognized  by 
all  to  whom  heavenly  aspiration  and  needful  disap- 
pointment are  not  unknown. 

1  Should  this  be  "in  fees ;"  that  is,  in  acknowledgment  of  his  feudal 
sovereignty  ? 


144  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


IN  DESOLATION. 

0  thou  who  sweetly  bend'st  my  stubborn  will, 
Who  send'st  thy  stripes  to  teach  and  not  to  kill ! 
Thy  cheerful  face  from  me  no  longer  hide  ; 
Withdraw  these  clouds,  the  scourges  of  my  pride ; 

1  sink  to  hell,  if  I  be  lower  thrown  : 
I  see  what  man  is,  being  left  alone. 

My  substance,  which  from  nothing  did  begin, 

Is  worse  than  nothing  by  the  weight  of  sin : 

I  see  myself  in  such  a  wretched  state 

As  neither  thoughts  conceive,  nor  words  relate. 

How  great  a  distance  parts  us  !  for  in  thee 

Is  endless  good,  and  boundless  ill  in  me. 

All  creatures  prove  me  abject,  but  how  low 

Thou  only  know'st,  and  teachest  me  to  know. 

To  paint  this  baseness,  nature  is  too  base ; 

This  darkness  yields  not  but  to  beams  of  grace. 

Where  shall  I  then  this  piercing  splendour  find  ? 

Or  found,  how  shall  it  guide  me,  being  blind  ? 

Grace  is  a  taste  of  bliss,  a  glorious  gift, 

Which  can  the  soul  to  heavenly  comforts  lift : 

It  will  not  shine  to  me,  whose  mind  is  drowned 

In  sorrows,  and  with  worldly  troubles  bound  ; 

It  will  not  deign  within  that  house  to  dwell, 

Where  dryness 'reigns,  and  proud  distractions  swell. 

Perhaps  it  sought  me  in  those  lightsome  days 

Of  my  first  fervour,  when  few  winds  did  raise 

The  waves,  and  ere  they  could  full  strength  obtain, 

Some  whispering  gale  straight  charmed  them  down  again ; 

When  all  seemed  calm,  and  yet  the  Virgin's  child 

On  my  devotions  in  his  manger  smiled ; 

While  then  I  simply  walked,  nor  heed  could  take 

Of  complacence,  that  sly,  deceitful  snake ; 

When  yet  I  had  not  dangerously  refused 

So  many  calls  to  virtue,  nor  abused 

The  spring  of  life,  which  I  so  oft  enjoyed, 

Nor  made  so  many  good  intentions  void, 

Deserving  thus  that  grace  should  quite  depart, 

And  dreadful  hardness  should  possess  my  heart : 


ANNUNCIA  TION  AND  RESURRECTION.       145 

Yet  in  that  state  this  only  good  I  found, 

That  fewer  spots  did  then  my  conscience  wound ; 

Though  who  can  censure  whether,  in  those  times,  judg 

The  want  of  feeling  seemed  the  want  of  crimes  ? 

If  solid  virtues  dwell  not  but  in  pain, 

I  will  not  wish  that  golden  age  again 

Because  it  flowed  with  sensible  delights 

Of  heavenly  things  :  God  hath  created  nights 

As  well  as  days,  to  deck  the  varied  globe; 

Grace  comes  as  oft  clad  in  the  dusky  robe 

Of  desolation,  as  in  white  attire, 

Which  better  fits  the  bright  celestial  choir. 

Some  in  foul  seasons  perish  through  despair, 

But  more  through  boldness  when  the  days  are  fair. 

This  then  must  be  the  medicine  for  my  woes — 

To  yield  to  what  my  Saviour  shall  dispose ; 

To  glory  in  my  baseness ;  to  rejoice 

In  mine  afflictions ;  to  obey  his  voice, 

As  well  when  threatenings  my  defects  reprove, 

As  when  I  cherished  am  with  words  of  love ; 

To  say  to  him,  in  every  time  and  place, 

"Withdraw  thy  comforts,  so  thou  leave  thy  grace." 

Surely  this  is  as  genuine  an  utterance,  whatever  its 
merits  as  a  poem — and  those  I  judge  not  small — as 
ever  flowed  from  Christian  heart ! 

Chiefly  for  the  sake  of  its  beauty,  I  give  the  last 
passage  of  a  poem  written  upon  occasion  of  the 
feasts  of  the  Annunciation  and  the  Resurrection 
falling  on  the  same  day. 

Let  faithful  souls  this  double  feast  attend 
In  two  processions.     Let  the  first  descend 
The  temple's  stairs,  and  with  a  downcast  eye 
Upon  the  lowest  pavement  prostrate  lie  : 
In  creeping  violets,  white  lilies,  shine 
Their  humble  thoughts  and  every  pure  design. 
The  other  troop  shall  climb,  with  sacred  heat, 
The  rich  degrees  of  Solomon's  bright  seat :  sd:/>i 

S.L.   IV.'  13 


i46  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON 

In  glowing  roses  fervent  zeal  they  bear, 
And  in  the  azure  flower-de-lis  appear 
Celestial  contemplations,  which  aspire 
Above  the  sky,  up  to  the  immortal  choir. 

William  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  a  Scotch- 
man, born  in  1585,  may  almost  be  looked  upon  as 
the  harbinger  of  a  fresh  outburst  of  word-music.  No 
doubt  all  the  great  poets  have  now  and  then  broken 
forth  in  lyrical  jubilation.  Ponderous  Ben  Jonson 
himself,  when  he  takes  to  song,  will  sing  in  the  joy  of 
the  very  sound ;  but  great  men  have  always  so  much 
graver  work  to  do,  that  they  comparatively  seldom 
indulge  in  this  kind  of  melody.  Drummond  excels 
in  madrigals,  or  canzonets  —  baby-odes  or  songs  — 
which  have  more  of  wing  and  less  of  thought  than 
sonnets.  Through  the  greater  part  of  his  verse  we 
hear  a  certain  muffled  tone  of  the  sweetest,  like  the 
music  that  ever  threatens  to  break  out  clear  from 
the  brook,  from  the  pines,  from  the  rain-shower, — 
never  does  break  out  clear,  but  remains  a  suggested, 
etherially  vanishing  tone.  His  is  a  voix  voiUe,  or 
veiled  voice  of  song.  It  is  true  that  in  the  time  we 
are  now  approaching  far  more  attention  was  paid  not 
merely  to  the  smoothness  but  to  the  melody  of  verse 
than  any  except  the  great  masters  had  paid  before ; 
but  some  are  at  the  door,  who,  not  being  great 
masters,  yet  do  their  inferior  part  nearly  as  well  as 
they  their  higher,  uttering  a  music  of  marvellous  and 
individual  sweetness,  which  no  mere  musical  care  could 
secure,  but  which  springs  essentially  from  music  in  the 
thought  gathering  to  itself  musical  words  in  melodious 


THE  ANGELS— THE  SHEPHERDS.  147 


division,  and  thus  fashioning  for  itself  a  fitting  body. 
The  melody  of  their  verse  is  all  their  own — as  original 
as  the  greatest  art-forms  of  the  masters.  Of  Drum- 
mond,  then,  here  are  two  sonnets  on  the  Nativity  ; 
the  first  spoken  by  the  angels,  the  second  by  the 
shepherds. 

The  Angels. 
Run,  shepherds,  run  where  Bethlehem  blest  appears. 

We  bring  the  best  of  news ;  be  not  dismayed  : 
A  Saviour  there  is  born  more  old  than  years, 

Amidst  heaven's  rolling  height  this  earth  who  stayed. 

In  a  poor  cottage  inned,  a  virgin  maid 
A  weakling  did  him  bear,  who  all  upbears ; 

There  is  he  poorly  swaddled,  in  manger  laid, 
To  whom  too  narrow  swaddlings  are  our  spheres  : 
Run,  shepherds,  run,  and  solemnize  his  birth. 

This  is  that  night — no,  day,  grown  great  with  bliss, 

In  which  the  power  of  Satan  broken  is  : 
In  heaven  be  glory,  peace  unto  the  earth  ! 

Thus  singing,  through  the  air  the  angels  swam, 

And  cope  of  stars  re-echoed  the  same. 

The  Shepherds. 

0  than  the  fairest  day,  thrice  fairer  night ! 
Night  to  best  days,  in  which  a  sun  doth  rise 
Of  which  that  golden  eye  which  clears  the  skies 

Is  but  a  sparkling  ray,  a  shadow-light  f 

And  blessed  ye,  in  silly  pastors'  sight,  simple. 

Mild  creatures,  in  whose  warm 1  crib  now  lies 
That  heaven-sent  youngling,  holy-maid-born  wight, 

Midst,  end,  beginning  of  our  prophecies  ! 
Blest  cottage  that  hath  flowers  in  winter  spread ! 

Though  withered— blessed  grass,  that  hath  the  grace 

To  deck  and  be  a  carpet  to  that  place  ! 
Thus  sang,  unto  the  sounds  of  oaten  reed, 

Before  the  babe,  the  shepherds  bowed  on  knees  ; 

And  springs  ran  nectar,  honey  dropped  from  trees. 

1  Warm  is  here  elongated,  almost  treated  as  a  dissyllable. 

L  2 


148  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

No  doubt  there  is  a  touch  of  the  conventional  in 
these.  Especially  in  the  close  of  the  last  there  is 
an  attempt  to  glorify  the  true  by  the  homage  of 
the  false.  But  verses  which  make  us  feel  the  marvel 
afresh — the  marvel  visible  and  credible  by  the  depth 
of  its  heart  of  glory — make  us  at  the  same  time 
easily  forget  the  discord  in  themselves. 

The  following,  not  a  sonnet,  although  it  looks  like 
one,  measuring  the  lawful  fourteen  lines,  is  the  closing 
paragraph  of  a  poem  he  calls^  Hymn  to  the  Fairest  Fair. 

0  king,  whose  greatness  none  can  comprehend, 
Whose  boundless  goodness  doth  to  all  extend  ! 
Light  of  all  beauty  !  ocean  without  ground, 
That  standing  flowest,  giving  dost  abound  ! 
Rich  palace,  and  indweller  ever  blest, 

Never  not  working,  ever  yet  in  rest ! 

What  wit  cannot  conceive,  words  say  of  thee, 

Here,  where,  as  in  a  mirror,  we  but  see 

Shadows  of  shadows,  atoms  of  thy  might, 

Still  owly-eyed  while  staring  on  thy  light, 

Grant  that,  released  from  this  earthly  jail, 

And  freed  of  clouds  which  here  our  knowledge  veil, 

In  heaven's  high  temples,  where  thy  praises  ring, 

1  may  in  sweeter  notes  hear  angels  sing. 

That  is,  "  May  I  in  heaven  hear  angels  sing  what  wit 
cannot  conceive  here." 

Drummond  excels  in  nobility  of  speech,  and  espe- 
cially in  the  fine  line  and  phrase,  so  justly  but  dispro- 
portionately prized  in  the  present  day.  I  give  an 
instance  of  each  : 

Here  do  seraphim 
Burn  with  immortal  love  ;  there  cherubim 
With  other  noble  people  of  the  light, 
As  eaglets  in  the  sun,  delight  their  sight. 


A  MADRIGAL.  149 


Like  to  a  lightning  through  the  welkin  hurled, 
That  scores  with  flames  the  way,  and  every  eye 
With  terror  dazzles  as  it  swimmeth  by. 

Here  are  six  fine  verses,  in  the  heroic  couplet,  from 
A  71  Hymn  of  the  Resurrection. 

So  a  small  seed  that  in  the  earth  lies  hid 
And  dies — reviving  bursts  her  cloddy  side  ; 
Adorned  with  yellow  locks,  of  new  is  born, 
And  doth  become  a  mother  great  with  corn  ; 
Of  grains  bring  hundreds  with  it,  which  when  old 
Enrich  the  furrows  with  a  sea  of  gold. 

But  I  must  content  myself  now  with  a  little  ma- 
drigal, the  only  one  fit  for  my  purpose.  Those  which 
would  best  support  what  I  have  said  of  his  music  are 
not  of  the  kind  we  want.  Unfortunately,  the  end  of 
this  one  is  not  equal  to  the  beginning. 

CHANGE  SHOULD  BREED  CHANGE. 

New  doth  the  sun  appear  ; 

The  mountains'  snows  decay  ; 
Crowned  with  frail  flowers  comes  forth  the  baby  year. 

My  soul,  time  posts  away; 

And  thou  yet  in  that  frost, 

Which  flower  and  fruit  hath  lost, 
As  if  all  here  immortal  were,  dost  stay  ! 

For  shame  !  thy  powers  awake  ; 
Look  to  that  heaven  which  never  night  makes  black  ; 
And  there,  at  that  immortal  sun's  bright  rays, 
Deck  thee  with  flowers  which  fear  not  rage  of  days. 
13* 


CHAPTER   XL 

XHE   BROTHERS   FLETCHER. 

I  NOW  come  to  make  mention  of  two  gifted  bro- 
thers, Giles  and  Phineas  Fletcher,  both  clergymen, 
the  sons  of  a  clergyman  and  nephews  to  the  Bishop 
of  Bristol,  therefore  the  cousins  of  Fletcher  the 
dramatist,  a  poem  by  whom  I  have  already  given 
Giles,  the  eldest,  is  supposed  to  have  been  born  in 
1588.  From  his  poem  Chris fs  Victory  and  Triumph, 
I  select  three  passages. 

To  understand  the  first,  it  is  necessary  to  explain 
that  v/hile  Christ  is  on  earth  a  dispute  between  Justice 
and  Mercy,  such  as  is  often  represented  by  the  theo- 
logians, takes  place  in  heaven.  We  must  allow  the 
unsuitable  fiction  attributing  distraction  to  the  divine 
Unity,  for  the  sake  of  the  words 'in  which  Mercy 
overthrows  the  arguments  of  Justice.  For  the  poet 
unintentionally  nullifies  the  symbolism  of  the  theo- 
logian, representing  Justice  as  defeated.  He  forgets 
that  the  grandest  exercise  of  justice  is  mercy.  The 
confusion  comes  from  the  fancy  that  justice  means 
vengeance  upon  sin,  and  not  the  doing  of  what  is  right. 
Justice  can  be  at  no  strife  with  mercy,  for  not  to  do 
what  is  just  would  be  most  unmerciful. 


MERCY  AND  JUSTICE.  151 

Mercy  first   sums   up  the   arguments   Justice  has 
been  employing  against  her,  in  the  following  stanza  : 

He  was  but  dust ;  why  feared  he  not  to  fall? 

And  being  fallen  how  can  he  hope  to  live? 
Cannot  the  hand  destroy  him  that  made  all? 

Could  he  not  take  away  as  well  as  give? 

Should  man  deprave,  and  should  not  God  deprive? 
Was  it  not  all  the  world's  deceiving  spirit 
(That,  bladdered  up  with  pride  of  his  own  merit, 
Fell  in  his  rise)  that  him  of  heaven  did  disinherit? 

To  these  she  then  proceeds  to  make  reply : 

He  was  but  dust:  how  could  he  stand  before  him? 

And  being  fallen,  why  should  he  fear  to  die? 
Cannot  the  hand  that  made  him  first,  restore  him? 

Depraved  of  sin,  should  he  deprived  lie 

Of  grace?     Can  he  not  find  infirmity 
That  gave  him  strength  ? — Unworthy  the  forsaking 
He  is,  whoever  weighs  (without  mistaking) 
Or  maker  of  the  man  or  manner  of  his  making.1 

Who  shall  thy  temple  incense  any  more, 

Or  to  thy  altar  crown  the  sacrifice, 
Or  strew  with  idle  flowers  the  hallowed  floor  ? 

Or  what  should  prayer  deck  with  herbs  and  spice,  why. 

Her  vials  breathing  orisons  of  price, 
Tf  all  must  pay  that  which  all  cannot  pay  ? 
O  first  begin  with  me,  and  Mercy  slay, 
And  thy  thrice  honoured  Son,  that  now  beneath  doth  stray. 

But  if  or  he  or  I  may  live  and  speak, 

And  heaven  can  joy  to  see  a  sinner  weep, 

Oh  !  let  not  Justice'  iron  sceptre  break 

A  heart  already  broke,  that  low  doth  creep, 

And  with  prone  humbless  her  feet's  dust  doth  sweep. 

Must  all  go  by  desert?     Is  nothing  free? 

Ah  !  if  but  those  that  only  worthy  be, 
None  should  thee  ever  see  !  none  should  thee  ever  see  ! 

1  "  He  ought  not  to  be  forsaken :  whoever  weighs  the  matter  rightly, 
will  come  to  this  conclusion." 


152  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

What  hath  man  done  that  man  shall  not  undo 

Since  God  to  him  is  grown  so  near  akin  ? 
Did  his  foe  slay  him  ?     He  shall  slay  his  foe. 

Hath  he  lost  all  ?     He  all  again  shall  win. 

Is  sin  his  master  ?     He  shall  master  sin. 
Too  hardy  soul,  with  sin  the  field  to  try  ! 
The  only  way  to  conquer  was  to  fly  ; 
But  thus  long  death  hath  lived,  and  now  death's  self  shall  die. 

He  is  a  path,  if  any  be  misled  ; 

He  is  a  robe,  if  any  naked  be  ; 
If  any  chance  to  hunger,  he  is  bread  ; 

If  any  be  a  bondman,  he  is  free ; 

If  any  be  but  weak,  how  strong  is  he  ! 
To  dead  men  life  he  is,  to  sick  men  health, 
To  blind  men  sight,  and  to  the  needy  wealth ; 
A  pleasure  without  loss,  a  treasure  without  stealth. 

Who  can  forget — never  to  be  forgot— 

The  time  that  all  the  world  in  slumber  lies, 
When  like  the  stars  the  singing  angels  shot 

To  earth,  and  heaven  awaked  all  his  eyes 

To  see  another  sun  at  midnight  rise? 
On  earth  was  never  sight  of  peril  fame ;  pareil:  equal. 

For  God  before  man  like  himself  did  frame, 
But  God  himself  now  like  a  mortal  man  became. 
***** 
The  angels  carolled  loud  their  song  of  peace ; 

The  cursed  oracles  were  stricken  dumb  ; 
To  see  their  Shepherd  the  poor  shepherds  press  ; 

To  see  their  King,  the  kingly  Sophies  come ; 

And  them  to  guide  unto  his  master's  home, 
A  star  comes  dancing  up  the  orient, 
That  springs  for  joy  over  the  strawy  tent, 
Where  gold,  to  make  their  prince  a  crown,  they  all  present. 

No  doubt  there  are  here  touches  of  execrable  taste, 
such  as  the  punning  trick  with  man  and  manners, 
suggesting  a  false  antithesis ;  or  the  opposition  of 
the  words  deprave  and  deprive;  but  we  have  in  them 


THE  LAST  HYMN,  153 

only  an  instance  of  how  the  meretricious  may  co-exist 
with  the  lovely.     The  passage  is  fine  and  powerful, 
notwithstanding  its  faults  and  obscurities. 
Here  is  another  yet  more  beautiful : 

So  down  the  silver  streams  of  Eridan,!    '  -  ' 

On  either  side  banked  with  a  lily  wall, 
Whiter  than  both,  rides  the  triumphant  swan, 

And  sings  his  dirge,  and  prophesies  his  fall, 

Diving  into  his  watery  funeral  ! 
But  Eridan  to  Cedron  must  submit 
His  flowery  shore  ;  nor  can  he  envy  it, 
If,  when  Apollo  sings,  his  swans  do  silent  sit3 

That  heavenly  voice  I  more  delight  to  hear 
Than  gentle  airs  to  breathe ;  or  swelling  waves 

Against  the  sounding  rocks  their  bosoms  tear;3 
Or  whistling  reeds  that  rutty  4  Jordan  laves, 
And  with  their  verdure  his  white  head  embraves ;    adorns. 

1  The  Eridan  is  the  Po. — As  regards  classical  allusions  in  con- 
nexion with  sacred  things,  I  would  remind  my  reader  of  the  great 
reverence  our  ancestors  had  for  the  classics,  from  the  influence  they  had 
had  in  reviving  the  literature  of  the  country. — I  need  hardly  remind 
him  of  the  commonly-received  fancy  that  the  swan  does  sing  once — 
just  as  his  death  draws  nigh.  Does  this  come  from  the  legend  of 
Cycnus  changed  into  a  swan  while  lamenting  the  death  of  his  friend 
Phaeton?  or  was  that  legend  founded  on  the  yet  older  fancy?  The 
glorious  bird  looks  as  if  he  ought  to  sing. 

2  The  poet  refers  to  the  singing  of  the  hymn  before  our  Lord  went 
to  the  garden  by  the  brook  Cedron. 

3  The  construction  is  obscure  just  from  the  insertion  of  the  to  before 
breathe,  where  it  ought  not  to  be  after  the  verb  hear.  The  poet  does 
not  mean  that  he  delights  to  hear  that  voice  more  than  to  breathe  gentle 
airs,  but  more  than  to  hear  gentle  airs  (to)  breathe.  To  hear,  under- 
stood, governs  all  the  infinitives  that  follow  ;  among  the  rest,  the  winds 
(to)  chide. 

*  Put  is  used  for  the  sound  of  the  tide  in  Cheshire.  (See  HalliwelVs 
Dictionary.)  Does  rutty  mean  roaring?  or  does  it  describe  the  deep, 
rugged  shores  of  the  Jordan  ? 


1 54  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 

To  chide  the  winds ;  or  hiving  bees  that  fly 
About  the  laughing  blossoms'1  of  sallowy,2 
Rocking  asleep  the  idle  grooms  3  that  lazy  lie. 

And  yet  how  can  I  hear  thee  singing  go, 
When  men,  incensed  with  hate,  thy  death  foreset  ? 

Or  else,  why  do  I  hear  thee  sighing  so, 

When  thou,  inflamed  with  love,  their  life  dost  get,4 
That  love  and  hate,  and  sighs  and  songs  are  met  ? 

But  thus,  and  only  thus,  thy  love  did  crave 

To  send  thee  singing  for  us  to  thy  grave, 
While  we  sought  thee  to  kill,  and  thou  sought'st  us  to  save. 

When  I  remember  Christ  our  burden  bears, 

I  look  for  glory,  but  find  misery ; 
I  look  for  joy,  but  find  a  sea  of  tears  ; 

I  look  that  we  should  live,  and  find  him  die ; 

I  look  for  angels'  songs,  and  hear  him  cry  : 
Thus  what  I  look,  I  cannot  find  so  well ; 
Or  rather,  what  I  find  I  cannot  tell, 
These  banks  so  narrow  are,  those  streams  so  highly  swell. 

We  would  gladly  eliminate  the  few  common-place 
allusions  ;  but  we  must  take  them  with  the  rest  of 
the  passage.  Besides  far  higher  merits,  it  is  to  my 
ear  most  melodious. 

One  more  passage  of  two  stanzas  from  Giles 
Fletcher,  concerning  the  glories  of  heaven:  I  quote 
them  for  the  sake  of  earth,  not  of  heaven. 

Gaze  but  upon  the  house  where  man  embowers  : 
With  flowers  and  rushes  paved  is  his  way ; 

Where  all  the  creatures  are  his  servitours : 
The  winds  do  sweep  his  chambers  every  day, 
And  clouds  do  wash  his  rooms  ;  the  ceiling  gay, 

1  A  monosyllable,  contracted  afterwards  into  bloom.         a  Willows. 

3  Groom  originally  means  just  a  man.  It  was  a  word  much  used 
when  pastoral  poetry  was  the  fashion.  Spenser  has  herd-grooms  in  his 
Shepherd's  Calendar.     This  last  is  what  it  means  here :  shepherds. 

4  Obtain,  save. 


THE  PURPLE  ISLAND.  155 

Starred  aloft,  the  gilded  knobs  embrave : 
If  such  a  house  God  to  another  gave, 
How  shine  those  glittering  courts  he  for  himself  will  have  ! 

And  if  a  sullen  cloud,  as  sad  as  night, 

In  which  the  sun  may  seem  embodied, 
Depured  of  all  his  dross,  we  see  so  white, 

Burning  in  melted  gold  his  watery  head, 

Or  round  with  ivory  edges  silvered  ; 
What  lustre  super-excellent  will  he 
Lighten  on  those  that  shall  his  sunshine  see 
In  that  all-glorious  court  in  which  all  glories  be  ! 

These  brothers  were  intense  admirers  of  Spenser. 
To  be  like  him  Phineas  must  write  an  allegory; 
and  such  an  allegory !  Of  all  the  strange  poems  in 
existence,  surely  this  is  the  strangest.  The  Purple 
Island  is  man,  whose  body  is  anatomically  described 
after  the  allegory  of  a  city,  which  is  then  peopled 
with  all  the  human  faculties  personified,  each  set 
in  motion  by  itself.  They  say  the  anatomy  is  cor- 
rect :  the  metaphysics  are  certainly  good.  The  action 
of  the  poem  is  just  another  form  of  the  Holy  War 
of  John  Bunyan  —  all  the  good  and  bad  powers 
fighting  for  the  possession  of  the  Purple  Island. 
What  renders  the  conception  yet  more  amazing  is  the 
fact  that  the  whole  ponderous  mass  of  anatomy  and 
metaphysics,  nearly  as  long  as  the  Paradise  Lost, 
is  put  as  a  song,  in  a  succession  of  twelve  cantos, 
in  the  mouth  of  a  shepherd,  who  begins  a  canto  every 
morning  to  the  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  of  the 
neighbourhood,  and  finishes  it  by  folding-time  in  the 
evening.  And  yet  the  poem  is  full  of  poetry.  He 
triumphs  over  his  difficulties  partly  by  audacity,  partly 
by  seriousness,  partly  by  the  enchantment  of  song 


156  ENGLAND'S  ANT/PffOA. 

But  the  poem  will  never  be  read  through  except  by 
students  of  English  literature.  It  is  a  whole;  its 
members  are  well -fitted ;  it  is  full  of  beauties — in 
parts  they  swarm  like  fire-flies ;  and  yet  it  is  not  a 
good  poem.  It  is  like  a  well-shaped  house,  built  of 
mud,  and  stuck  full  of  precious  stones.  I  do  not  care, 
in  my  limited  space,  to  quote  from  it.  Never  was 
there  a  more  incongruous  dragon  of  allegory. 

Both  brothers  were  injured,  not  by  their  worship  of 
Spenser,  but  by  the  form  that  worship  took — imitation. 
They  seem  more  pleased  to  produce  a  line  or  stanza 
that  shall  recall  a  line  or  stanza  of  Spenser,  than  to  pro- 
duce a  fine  original  of  their  own.  They  even  copy  lines 
almost  word  for  word  from  their  great  master.  This 
is  pure  homage  :  it  was  their  delight  that  such  adapta- 
tions should  be  recognized — just  as  it  was  Spenser's 
hope,  when  he  inserted  translated  stanzas  from  Tasso's 
Jerusalem  Delivered  in  The  Fairy  Queen,  to  gain  the 
honour  of  a  true  reproduction.  Yet,  strange  fate  for 
imitators  !  both,  but  Giles  especially,  were  imitated  by 
a  greater  than  their  worship — even  by  Milton.  They 
make  Spenser's  worse  :  Milton  makes  theirs  better. 
They  imitate  Spenser,  faults  and  all :  Milton  glorifies 
their  beauties. 

From  the  smaller  poems  of  Phineas,  I  choose  the 
following  version  of 

PSALM  CXXX. 

From  the  deeps  of  grief  and  fear, 

O  Lord,  to  thee  my  soul  repairs  : 
From  thy  heaven  bow  down  thine  ear  ; 

Let  thy  mercy  meet  my  prayers. 


HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEPING.      157 

Oh  !  if  thou  mark'st  what's  done  amiss, 
What  soul  so  pure  can  see  thy  bliss  ? 

But  with  thee  sweet  Mercy  stands, 

Sealing  pardons,  working  fear. 
Wait,  my  soul,  wait  on  his  hands  ; 

Wait,  mine  eye ;  oh  !  wait,  mine  ear  : 
If  he  his  eye  or  tongue  affords, 
Watch  all  his  looks,  catch  all  his  words. 

As  a  watchman  waits  for  day, 

And  looks  for  light,  and  looks  again  : 
When  the  night  grows  old  and  gray, 

To  be  relieved  he  calls  amain  : 
So  look,  so  wait,  so  long,  mine  eyes, 
To  see  my  Lord,  my  sun,  arise. 

Wait,  ye  saints,  wait  on  our  Lord, 

For  from  his  tongue  sweet  mercy  flows  ; 

Wait  on  his  cross,  wait  on  his  word ; 
Upon  that  tree  redemption  grows  : 

He  will  redeem  his  Israel 

From  sin  and  wrath,  from  death  and  hell. 

I  shall  now  give  two  stanzas  of  his  version  of  the 
127th  Psalm. 

If  God  build  not  the  house,  and  lay 
The  groundwork  sure — whoever  build, 

\t  cannot  stand  one  stormy  day. 
If  God  be  not  the  city's  shield, 

If  he  be  not  their  bars  and  wall, 

In  vain  is  watch-tower,  men,  and  all. 

Though  then  thou  wak'st  when  others  rest, ' 
Though  rising  thou  prevent'st  the  sun, 

Though  with  lean  care  thou  daily  feast, 
Thy  labour's  lost,  and  thou  undone; 

But  God  his  child  will  feed  and  keep, 

And  draw  the  curtains  to  his  sleep. 

Compare  this  with  a  version  of  the  same  portion 
by  Dr.  Henry  King,  Bishop  of  Chichester,  who,  no 

14 


158  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


great   poet,  has  written  some  good  verse.     He  was 
about  the  same  age  as  Phineas  Fletcher. 

Except  the  Lord  the  house  sustain, 
The  builder's  labour  is  in  vain  ; 
Except  the  city  he  defend, 
And  to  the  dwellers  safety  send, 
In  vain  are  sentinels  prepared, 
Or  armed  watchmen  for  the  guard. 

You  vainly  with  the  early  light 

Arise,  or  sit  up  late  at  night 

To  find  support,  and  daily  eat 

Your  bread  with  sorrow  earned  and  sweat ; 

When  God,  who  his  beloved  keeps, 

This  plenty  gives  with  quiet  sleeps. 

What  difference  do  we  find  ?  That  the  former  has 
the  more  poetic  touch,  the  latter  the  greater  truth. 
The  former  has  just  lost  the  one  precious  thing  in  the 
psalm  ;  the  latter  has  kept  it :  that  care  is  as  useless 
as  painful,  for  God  gives  us  while  we  sleep,  and  not 
while  we  labour. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WITHER,    HERRICK,    AND   QUARLES. 

George  Wither,  born  in  1588,  therefore  about  the 
same  age  as  Giles  Fletcher,  was  a  very  different  sort 
of  writer  indeed.  There  could  hardly  be  a  greater  con- 
trast. Fancy,  and  all  her  motley  train,  were  scarcely 
known  to  Wither,  save  by  the  hearing  of  the  ears. 

He  became  an  eager  Puritan  towards  the  close  of 
his  life,  but  his  poetry  chiefly  belongs  to  the  earlier 
part  of  it.  Throughout  it  is  distinguished  by  a 
certain  straightforward  simplicity  of  good  English 
thought  and  English  word.  His  hymns  remind  me, 
in  the  form  of  their  speech,  of  Gascoigne.  I  shall 
quote  but  little ;  for,  although  there  is  a  sweet  calm 
and  a  great  justice  of  reflection  and  feeling,  there  is 
hardly  anything  of  that  warming  glow,  that  rousing 
force,  that  impressive  weight  in  his  verse,  which  is 
the  chief  virtue  of  the  lofty  rhyme. 

The  best  in  a  volume  of  ninety  Hymns  and  Songs 
of  the  Church,  is,  I  think,  The  Author's  Hym?i  at  the 
close,  of  which  I  give  three  stanzas.  They  manifest 
the  simplicity  and  truth  of  the  man,  reflecting  in  their 
very  tone  his  faithful,  contented,  trustful  nature. 


i6o  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


By  thy  grace,  those  passions,  troubles, 

And  those  wants  that  me  opprest, 
Have  appeared  as  water-bubbles, 

Or  as  dreams,  and  things  in  jest : 
For,  thy  leisure  still  attending, 
I  with  pleasure  saw  their  ending. 

Those  afflictions  and  those  terrors, 

Which  to  others  grim  appear, 
Did  but  show  me  where  my  errors 

And  my  imperfections  were  ; 
But  distrustful  could  not  make  me 
Of  thy  love,  nor  fright  nor  shake  me. 

Those  base  hopes  that  would  possess  me, 

And  those  thoughts  of  vain  repute 
Which  do  now  and  then  oppress  me, 

Do  not,  Lord,  to  me  impute  ; 
And  though  part  they  will  not  from  me, 
Let  them  never  overcome  me. 

He  has  written  another  similar  volume,  but  much 
larger,  and  of  a  somewhat  extraordinary  character. 
It  consists  of  no  fewer  than  two  hundred  and  thirty- 
three  hymns,  mostly  long,  upon  an  incredible  variety 
of  subjects,  comprehending  one  for  every  season  of 
nature  and  of  the  church,  and  one  for  every  occur- 
rence in  life  of  which  the  author  could  think  as 
likely  to  confront  man  or  woman.  Of  these  subjects 
I  quote  a  few  of  the  more  remarkable,  but  even  from 
them  my  reader  can  have  little  conception  of  the 
variety  in  the  book :  A  Hymn  whilst  we  are  wash- 
ing  ;  In  a  clear  starry  Night ;  A  Hymn  for  a  House- 
warming ;  After  a  great  Frost  or  Snow  ;  For  one 
whose  Beauty  is  much  praised ;  For  one  upbraided 
with  Deformity ;  For  a  Widower  or  a    Widow  deli- 


GEORGE  WITHER.  j6i 

vered  from  a  troublesome  Yokefellow  ;  For  a  Cripple  ; 
For  a  Jailor ;  For  a  Poet. 

Here  is  a   portion  of  one  which  I   hope  may  be 
helpful  to  some  of  my  readers. 

WHEN  WE  CANNOT  SLEEP. 

What  ails  my  heart,  that  in  my  breast 

It  thus  unquiet  lies  ; 
And  that  it  now  of  needful  rest 

Deprives  my  tired  eyes  ? 

Let  not  vain  hopes,  griefs,  doubts,  or  fears, 

Distemper  so  my  mind ; 
But  cast  on  God  thy  thoughtful  cares, 

And  comfort  thou  shalt  find. 

In  vain  that  soul  attempteth  ought, 

And  spends  her  thoughts  in  vain, 
Who  by  or  in  herself  hath  sought 

Desired  peace  to  gain. 

On  thee,  O  Lord,  on  thee  therefore, 

My  musings  now  I  place  ; 
Thy  free  remission  I  implore, 

And  thy  refreshing  grace. 

Forgive  thou  me,  that  when  my  mind 

Oppressed  began  to  be, 
I  sought  elsewhere  my  peace  to  find, 

Before  I  came  to  thee. 

And,  gracious  God,  vouchsafe  to  grant, 

Unworthy  though  I  am, 
The  needful  rest  which  now  I  want, 

That  I  may  praise  thy  name. 

Before  examining  the  volume,  one  would  say  that 
no  man  could  write  so  many  hymns  without  frequent 
s.l.  14* 


162  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


and  signal  failure.  But  the  marvel  here  is,  that  the 
hymns  are  all  so  very  far  from  bad.  He  can  never 
have  written  in  other  than  a  gentle  mood.  There 
must  have  been  a  fine  harmony  in  his  nature,  that 
kept  him,  as  it  were.  This  peacefulness  makes  him 
interesting  in  spite  of  his  comparative  flatness.  I 
must  restrain  remark,  however,  and  give  five  out  of 
twelve  stanzas  of  another  of  his  hymns. 

A  ROCKING  HYMN. 

Sweet  baby,  sleep  :  what  ails  my  dear? 

What  ails  my  darling  thus  to  cry  ? 
Be  still,  my  child,  and  lend  thine  ear 

To  hear  me  sing  thy  lullaby. 
My  pretty  lamb,  forbear  to  weep; 
Be  still,  my  dear ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Whilst  thus  thy  lullaby  I  sing, 

For  thee  great  blessings  ripening  be  ; 
Thine  eldest  brother  is  a  king, 

And  hath  a  kingdom  bought  for  thee. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 
Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

A  little  infant  once  was  he, 

And  strength  in  weakness  then  was  laid 

Upon  his  virgin  mother's  knee, 
That  power  to  thee  might  be  conveyed. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Within  a  manger  lodged  thy  Lord, 

Where  oxen  lay,  and  asses  fed  ; 
Warm  rooms  we  do  to  thee  afford, 

An  easy  cradle  or  a  bed. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 
Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


ROBERT  HERRICK  163 

Thou  hast,  yet  more  to  perfect  this, 

A  promise  and  an  earnest  got, 
Of  gaining  everlasting  bliss, 

Though  thou,  my  babe,  perceiv'st  it  not. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 
Be  still,  my  babe ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

I  think  George  Wither's  verses  will  grow  upon  the 
reader  of  them,  tame  as  they  are  sure  to  appear  at 
first.  His  Hallelujah,  or  Britain's  Second  Remem- 
brancer, from  which  I  have  been  quoting,  is  well 
worth  possessing,  and  can  be  procured  without 
difficulty. 

We  now  come  to  a  new  sort,  both  of  man  and  poet 
— still  a  clergyman.  It  is  an  especial  pleasure  to 
write  the  name  of  Robert  Herrick  amongst  the  poets 
of  religion,  for  the  very  act  records  that  the  jolly, 
careless  Anacreon  of  the  church,  with  his  head  and 
heart  crowded  with  pleasures,  threw  down  at  length 
his  wine-cup,  tore  the  roses  from  his  head,  and  knelt 
in  the  dust. 

Nothing  bears  Herrick's  name  so  unrefined  as  the 
things  Dr.  Donne  wrote  in  his  youth  ;  but  the  impres- 
sion made  by  his  earlier  poems  is  of  a  man  of  far 
shallower  nature,  and  greatly  more  absorbed  in  the 
delights  of  the  passing  hour.  In  the  year  1648,  when 
he  was  fifty-seven  years  of  age,  being  prominent  as  a 
Royalist,  he  was  ejected  from  his  living  by  the  domi- 
nant Puritans  ;  and  in  that  same  year  he  published  his 
poems,  of  which  the  latter  part  and  later  written  is  his 
Noble  Numbers,  or  religious  poems.  We  may  wonder 
at  his  publishing  the  Hesperides  along  with  them,  but 
we  must  not  forget  that,  while  the  manners  of  a  time 

M  2 


164  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

are  never  to  be  taken  as  a  justification  of  what  is  wrong, 
the  judgment  of  men  concerning  what  is  wrong  will  be 
greatly  influenced  by  those  manners — not  necessarily 
on  the  side  of  laxity.  It  is  but  fair  to  receive  his 
own  testimony  concerning  himself,  offered  in  these 
two  lines  printed  at  the  close  of  his  Hesperides: 

To  his  book's  end  this  last  line  he'd  have  placed  : 
Jocund  his  muse  was,  but  his  life  was  chaste. 

We  find  the  same  artist  in  the  Noble  Numbers  as  in 
the  Hesperides,  but  hardly  the  same  man.  However 
far  he  may  have  been  from  the  model  of  a  clergyman 
in  the  earlier  period  of  his  history,  partly  no  doubt 
from  the  society  to  which  his  power  of  song  made  him 
acceptable,  I  cannot  believe  that  these  later  poems 
are  the  results  of  mood,  still  less  the  results  of  mere 
professional  bias,  or  even  sense  of  professional  duty. 

In  a  good  many  of  his  poems  he  touches  the  heart 
of  truth  ;  in  others,  even  those  of  epigrammatic  form, 
he  must  be  allowed  to  fail  in  point  as  well  as  in 
meaning.  As  to  his  art-forms,  he  is  guilty  of  great 
offences,  the  result  of  the  same  passion  for  lawless 
figures  and  similitudes  which  Dr.  Donne  so  freely 
indulged.  But  his  verses  are  brightened  by  a  certain 
almost  childishly  quaint  and  innocent  humour  ;  while 
the  tenderness  of  some  of  them  rises  on  the  reader 
like  the  aurora  of  the  coming  sun  of  George  Herbert 
I  do  not  forget  that,  even  if  some  of  his  poems  were 
printed  in  1639,  years  before  that  George  Herbert 
had  done  his  work  and  gone  home  :  my  figure  stands 
in  relation  to  the  order  I  have  adopted. 


LITANY  TO  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT.  165 

Some  of  his  verse  is  homelier  than  even  George 
Herbert's  homeliest.  One  of  its  most  remarkable 
traits  is  a  quaint  thanksgiving  for  the  commonest 
things  by  name — not  the  less  real  that  it  is  some- 
times even  queer.     For  instance  : 

God  gives  not  only  corn  for  need, 
But  likewise  superabundant  seed  ; 
Bread  for  our  service,  bread  for  show ; 
Meat  for  our  meals,  and  fragments  too  : 
He  gives  not  poorly,  taking  some 
Between  the  finger  and  the  thumb, 
But  for  our  glut,  and  for  our  store, 
Fine  flour  pressed  down,  and  running  o'er. 

Here  is  another,  delightful  in  its  oddity.  We  can 
fancy  the  merry  yet  gracious  poet  chuckling  over  the 
vision  of  the  child  and  the  fancy  of  his  words. 

A  GRACE  FOR  A  CHILD. 

Here  a  little  child  I  stand, 

Heaving  up  my  either  hand  ; 

Cold  as  paddocks  though  they  be,  frogs. 

Here  I  lift  them  up  to  thee, 

For  a  benison  to  fall 

On  our  meat,  and  on  us  all     Amen. 

I  shall  now  give  two  or  three  of  his  longer  poems, 
which  are  not  long,  and  then  a  few  of  his  short  ones. 
The  best  known  is  the  following,  but  it  is  not  so  well 
known  that  I  must  therefore  omit  it. 

HIS  LITANY  TO  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT. 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 


166  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 


When  I  lie  within  my  bed, 
Sick  in  heart,  and  sick  in  head, 
And  with  doubts  discomforted, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees  without  skill. 

No  one  hope,  but  of  his  fees, 
And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  his  potion  and  his  pill, 
His  or  none  or  little  skill, 
Meet  for  nothing  but  to  kill, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  passing-bell  doth  toll, 
And  the  furies  in  a  shoal 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soul, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue, 
And  the  comforters  are  few, 
And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed, 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said, 
'Cause  my  speech  is  now  decayed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  God  knows  I'm  tossed  about, 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt, 
Yet,  before  the  glass  be  out, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  tempter  me  pursu'th 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 
And  half  damns  me  with  untruth, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 


THE  WHITE  ISLAND.  167 


When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears  and  fright  mine  eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  judgment  is  revealed, 
And  that  opened  which  was  sealed  ; 
When  to  thee  I  have  appealed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 


THE  WHITE  ISLAND,  OR  PLACE  OF  THE  BLEST. 

In  this  world,  the  Isle  of  Dreams, 
While  we  sit  by  sorrow's  streams, 
Tears  and  terrors  are  our  themes, 
Reciting ; 

But  when  once  from  hence  we  fly, 
More  and  more  approaching  nigh 
Unto  young  eternity, 

Uniting ; 

In  that  whiter  island,  where 
Things  are  evermore  sincere ; 
Candour  here  and  lustre  there, 

Delighting  : 

There  no  monstrous  fancies  shall 
Out  of  hell  an  horror  call, 
To  create,  or  cause  at  all, 

Affrighting. 

There,  in  calm  and  cooling  sleep 
We  our  eyes  shall  never  steep, 
But  eternal  watch  shall  keep, 

Attending 

Pleasures  such  as  shall  pursue 
Me  immortalized  and  you  ; 
\nd  fresh  joys,  as  never  too 

Have  ending. 


168  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


TO  DEATH. 

Thou  bid'st  me  come  away; 
And  I'll  no  longer  stay 
Than  for  to  shed  some  tears 
For  faults  of  former  years  ; 
And  to  repent  some  crimes 
Done  in  the  present  times; 
And  next,  to  take  a  bit 
Of  bread,  and  wine  with  it ; 
To  don  my  robes  of  love, 
Fit  for  the  place  above  ; 
To  gird  my  loins  about 
With  charity  throughout, 
And  so  to  travel  hence 
With  feet  of  innocence  : 
These  done,  I'll  only  cry, 
"  God,  mercy  !  "  and  so  die. 

ETERNITY. 

O  years  and  age,  farewell ! 

Behold  I  go 

Where  I  do  know 
Infinity  to  dwell. 

And  these  mine  eyes  shall  see 
All  times,  how  they 
Are  lost  i'  th'  sea 

Of  vast  eternity, 

Where  never  moon  shall  sway 
The  stars  ;  but  she 
And  night  shall  be 

Drowned  in  one  endless  day. 

THE  GOODNESS  OF  HIS  GOD. 

When  winds  and  seas  do  rage, 
And  threaten  to  undo  me, 

Thou  dost  their  wrath  assuage, 
If  I  but  call  unto  thee. 


DIVINE  EPIGRAMS  169 


A  mighty  storm  last  night 

Did  seek  my  soul  to  swallow ; 
But  by  the  peep  of  light 

A  gentle  calm  did  follow. 

What  need  I  then  despair 

Though  ills  stand  round  about  me ; 

Since  mischiefs  neither  dare 
To  bark  or  bite  without  thee  ? 

TO  GOD. 

Lord,  I  am  like  to  mistletoe, 
"Which  has  no  root,  and  cannot  grow 
Or  prosper,  but  by  that  same  tree 
It  clings  about  :  so  I  by  thee. 
What  need  I  then  to  fear  at  all 
So  long  as  I  about  thee  crawl  ? 
But  if  that  tree  should  fall  and  die, 
Tumble  shall  heaven,  and  down  will  I. 

Here  are  now  a  few  chosen  from   many  that — to 
borrow  a  term  from  Crashaw — might  be  called 

DIVINE   EPIGRAMS. 

God,  when  he's  angry  here  with  any  one, 
His  wrath  is  free  from  perturbation ; 
And  when  we  think  his  looks  are  sour  and  grim, 
The  alteration  is  in  us,  not  him. 


God  can't  be  wrathful ;  but  we  may  conclude 

Wrathful  he  may  be  by  similitude  : 

God's  wrathful  said  to  be  when  he  doth  do 

That  without  wrath,  which  wrath  doth  force  us  to. 


'Tis  hard  to  find  God  ;  but  to  comprehend 
Him  as  he  is,  is  labour  without  end. 


lo 


X  7©  ENGLAND  fS  ANTIPHON. 

God's  rod  doth  watch  while  men  do  sleep,  and  then 
The  rod  doth  sleep  while  vigilant  are  men. 


A  man's  trangression  God  does  then  remit, 
When  man  he  makes  a  penitent  for  it. 


God,  when  he  takes  my  goods  and  chattels  hence, 

Gives  me  a  portion,  giving  patience  : 

What  is  in  God  is  God  :  if  so  it  be 

He  patience  gives,  he  gives  himself  to  me. 


Humble  we  must  be,  if  to  heaven  we  go ; 
High  is  the  roof  there,  but  the  gate  is  low. 


God  who's  in  heaven,  will  hear  from  thence, 
If  not  to  the  sound,  yet  to  the  sense. 


The  same  who  crowns  the  conqueror,  will  be 
A  coadjutor  in  the  agony. 


God  is  so  potent,  as  his  power  can  that. 

Draw  out  of  bad  a  sovereign  good  to  man. 


Paradise  is,  as  from  the  learn'd  I  gather, 
A  choir  of  blest  souls  circling  in  the  Father. 


Heaven  is  not  given  for  our  good  works  here ; 
Yet  it  is  given  to  the  labourer. 


One  more  for  the  sake  of  Martha,  smiled  at  by  so 
many  because  they  are  incapable  either  of  her  blame 
or  her  sister's  praise. 

The  repetition  of  the  name,  made  known 
No  other  than  Christ's  full  affection. 


THE  TEACHING  OF  THE  POSITIVE.  171 

And  so  farewell  to  the  very  lovable  Robert 
Herrick. 

Francis  Quarles  was  born  in  1592.  I  have  not  much 
to  say  about  him,  popular  as  he  was  in  his  own  day, 
for  a  large  portion  of  his  writing  takes  the  shape  of 
satire,  which  I  consider  only  an  active  form  of  nega- 
tion. I  doubt  much  if  mere  opposition  to  the  false  is 
of  any  benefit.  Convince  a  man  by  argument  that  the 
thing  he  has  been  taught  is  false,  and  you  leave  his 
house  empty,  swept,  and  garnished;  but  the  expulsion 
of  the  falsehood  is  no  protection  against  its  re-entrance 
in  another  mask,  with  seven  worse  than  itself  in  its 
company.  The  right  effort  of  the  teacher  is  to  give 
the  positive — to  present,  as  he  may,  the  vision  of 
reality,  for  the  perception  of  which,  and  not  for  the 
discovery  of  falsehood,  is  man  created.  This  will  not 
only  cast  out  the  demon,  but  so  people  the  house  that 
he  will  not  dare  return.  If  a  man  might  disprove 
all  the  untruths  in  creation,  he  would  hardly  be  a 
hair's  breadth  nearer  the  end  of  his  own  making. 
It  is  better  to  hold  honestly  one  fragment  of  truth 
in  the  midst  of  immeasurable  error,  than  to  sit  alone, 
if  that  were  possible,  in  the  midst  of  an  absolute 
vision,  clear  as  the  hyaline,  but  only  repellent  of 
falsehood,  not  receptive  of  truth.  It  is  the  positive 
by  which  a  man  shall  live.  Truth  is  his  life.  The 
refusal  of  the  false  is  not  the  reception  of  the  true. 
A  man  may  deny  himself  into  a  spiritual  lethargy, 
without  denying  one  truth,  simply  by  spending  his 
strength  for  that  which  is  not  bread,  until  he  has 
none  left  wherewith  to  search  for  the  truth,  which 


172  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

alone  can  feed  him.  Only  when  subjected  to  the 
positive  does  the  negative  find  its  true  vocation. 

I  am  jealous  of  the  living  force  cast  into  the  slough 
of  satire.  No  doubt,  either  indignant  or  loving  rebuke 
has  its  end  and  does  its  work,  but  I  fear  that  wit, 
while  rousing  the  admiration  of  the  spiteful  or  the  like 
witty,  comes  in  only  to  destroy  its  dignity.  At  the 
same  time,  I  am  not  sure  whether  there  might  not  be 
such  a  judicious  combination  of  the  elements  as  to 
render  my  remarks  inapplicable. 

At  all  events,  poetry  favours  the  positive,  and  from 
the  Emblems  named  of  Quarles  I  shall  choose  one  in 
which  it  fully  predominates.  There  is  something  in 
it  remarkably  fine. 


PHOSPHOR,  BRING  THE  DAY. 

Will 't  ne'er  be  morning?     Will  that  promised  light 
Ne'er  break,  and  clear  those  clouds  of  night  ? 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day, 
Whose  conquering  ray 
May  chase  these  fogs  :  sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day. 

How  long,  how  long  shall  these  benighted  eyes 

Languish  in  shades,  like  feeble  flies 
Expecting  spring  ?     How  long  shall  darkness  soil 

The  face  of  earth,  and  thus  beguile 
Our  souls  of  sprightful  action?     When,  when  will  day 

Begin  to  dawn,  whose  new-born  ray 
May  gild  the  weathercocks  of  our  devotion, 

And  give  our  unsouled  souls  new  motion  ? 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  : 
The  light  will  fray 
These  horrid  mists :  sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day. 


PHOSPHOR,  BRING  THE  DA  Y.  173 


Let  those  whose  eyes,  like  owls,  abhor  the  light — 
Let  those  have  night  that  love  the  night : 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day. 
How  sad  delay 
Afflicts  dull  hopes  !     Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day. 

Alas  !  my  light-in-vain-expecting  eyes 

Can  find  no  objects  but  what  rise 
From  this  poor  mortal  blaze,  a  dying  spark 

Of  Vulcan's  forge,  whose  flames  are  dark, — 
A  dangerous,  dull,  blue-burning  light, 

As  melancholy  as  the  night : 
Here's  all  the  suns  that  glister  in  the  sphere 

Of  earth  :  Ah  me  !  what  comfort's  here  ! 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day. 
Haste,  haste  away 
Heaven's  loitering  lamp  :  sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day. 

Blow,  Ignorance.     O  thou,  whose  idle  knee 

Rocks  earth  into  a  lethargy, 
And  with  thy  sooty  fingers  hast  benight 

The  world's  fair  cheeks,  blow,  blow  thy  spite  ; 
Since  thou  hast  puffed  our  greater  taper,  do 

Puff  on,  and  out  the  lesser  too. 
If  e'er  that  breath -exiled  flame  return, 

Thou  hast  not  blown  as  it  will  burn. 
Sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day  : 
Light  will  repay 
The  wrongs  of  night :  sweet  Phosphor,  bring  the  day. 

With  honoured,  thrice  honoured  George  Herbert 
waiting  at  the  door,  I  cannot  ask  Francis  Quarks  to 
remain  longer:  I  can  part  with  him  without  regret, 
worthy  man  and  fair  poet  as  he  is. 

15* 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


GEORGE   HERBERT. 


But,  with  my  hand  on  the  lock,  I  shrink  from 
opening  the  door.  Here  cornes  a  poet  indeed!  and 
how  am  I  to  show  him  due  honour  ?  With  his  book 
humbly,  doubtfully  offered,  with  the  ashes  of  the 
poems  of  his  youth  fluttering  in  the  wind  of  his  priestly 
garments;  he  crosses  the  threshold.  Or  rather,  for  I 
had  forgotten  the  symbol  of  my  book,  let  us  all  go 
from  our  chapel  to  the  choir,  and  humbly  ask  him 
to  sing  that  he  may  make  us  worthy  of  his  song. 

In  George  Herbert  there  is  poetry  enough  and  to 
spare  :  it  is  the  household  bread  of  his  being.  If  I 
begin  with  that  which  first  in  the  nature  of  things  ought 
to  be  demanded  of  a  poet,  namely,  Truth,  Revelation — 
George  Herbert  offers  us  measure  pressed  down  and 
running  over.  But  let  me  speak  first  of  that  which 
first  in  time  or  order  of  appearance  we  demand  of 
a  poet,  namely  music.  For  inasmuch  as  verse  is  for 
the  ear,  not  for  the  eye,  we  demand  a  good  hearing 
first.  Let  no  one  undervalue  it.  The  heart  of  poetry 
is  indeed  truth,  but  its  garments  are  music,  and  the 
garments  come  first  in  the  process  of  revelation.    The 


THE  ELIXIR.  175 


music  of  a  poem  is  its  meaning  in  sound  as  distin- 
guished from  word  —  its  meaning  in  solution,  as  it 
were,  uncrystallized  by  articulation.  The  music  goes 
before  the  fuller  revelation,  preparing  its  way.  The 
sound  of  a  verse  is  the  harbinger  of  the  truth  con- 
tained therein.  If  it  be  a  right  poem,  this  will  be 
true.  Herein  Herbert  excels.  It  will  be  found  im- 
possible to  separate  the  music  of  his  words  from  the 
music  of  the  thought  which  takes  shape  in  their  sound. 

I  got  me  flowers  to  strow  thy  way, 

I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree  ; 
But  thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 

And  brought'st  thy  sweets  along  with  thee. 

And  the  gift  it  enwraps  at  once  and  reveals  is,  I 
have  said,  truth  of  the  deepest.  Hear  this  song  of 
divine  service.  In  every  song  he  sings  a  spiritual 
fact  will  be  found  its  fundamental  life,  although  I 
may  quote  this  or  that  merely  to  illustrate  some 
peculiarity  of  mode. 

The  Elixir  was  an  imagined  liquid  sought  by  the 
old  physical  investigators,  in  order  that  by  its  means 
they  might  turn  every  common  metal  into  gold,  a 
pursuit  not  quite  so  absurd  as  it  has  since  appeared. 
They  called  this  something,  when  regarded  as  a  solid, 
the  Philosopher's  Stone.  In  the  poem  it  is  also  called 
a  tincture. 

THE  ELIXIR. 

Teach  me,  my  God  and  King, 

In  all  things  thee  to  see ; 
And  what  I  do  in  anything, 

To  do  it  as  for  thee  ; 


1 76  ENGLAND 'S  A  NT  IP  HON. 

Not  rudely,  as  a  beast, 

To  run  into  an  action  ; 
But  still  to  make  thee  prepossest, 

And  give  it  his  perfection.  its. 

A  man  that  looks  on  glass, 

On  it  may  stay  his  eye  ; 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass, 

And  then  the  heaven  spy. 

All  may  of  thee  partake  : 

Nothing  can  be  so  mean, 
Which  with  his  tincture^/frr  thy  sake —  its. 

Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 

A  servant  with  this  clause 

Makes  drudgery  divine  : 
Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  thy  laws, 

Makes  that  and  the  action  fine. 

This  is  the  famous  stone 

That  turneth  all  to  gold  ; 
For  that  which  God  doth  touch  and  own 

Cannot  for  less  be  told. 

With  a  conscience  tender  as  a  child's,  almost 
diseased  in  its  tenderness,  and  a  heart  loving  as  a 
woman's,  his  intellect  is  none  the  less  powerful.  Its 
movements  are  as  the  sword-play  of  an  alert,  poised, 
well-knit,  strong-wristed  fencer  with  the  rapier,  in 
which  the  skill  impresses  one  more  than  the  force, 
while  without  the  force  the  skill  would  be  valueless, 
even  hurtful,  to  its  possessor.  There  is  a  graceful 
humour  with  it  occasionally,  even  in  his  most  serious 
poems  adding  much  to  their  charm.  To  illustrate 
all  this,  take  the  following,  the  title  of  which  means 
The  Retort. 


GEORGE  HERBERT:    HIS  HUMOUR.  177 


THE  QUIP. 

The  merry  World  did  on  a  day 

With  his  train-bands  and  mates  agree 

To  meet  together  where  I  lay, 
And  all  in  sport  to  jeer  at  me. 

First  Beauty  crept  into  a  rose  ; 

Which  when  I  plucked  not — "Sir,"  said  she, 
"  Tell  me,  I  pray,  whose  hands  are  those ?  "  x 

But  ihou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  Money  came,  and,  chinking  still — 
"  What  tune  is  this,  poor  man  ?  "  said  he  : 

11 1  heard  in  music  you  had  skill." 
But  thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  brave  Glory  puffing  by 

In  silks  that  whistled — who  but  he  ? 
He  scarce  allowed  me  half  an  eye  ; 
But  thou  shalt  answer.  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  quick  Wit-and-Conversation, 

And  he  would  needs  a  comfort  be, 
And,  to  be  short,  make  an  oration : 

But  thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Yet  when  the  hour  of  thy  design 
To  answer  these  fine  things,  shall  come, 

Speak  not  at  large — say  I  am  thine  ; 
And  then  they  have  their  answer  home. 

Here  is  another  instance  of  his  humour.  It  is  the 
first  stanza  of  a  poem  to  Death.  He  is  glorying  over 
Death  as  personified  in  a  skeleton. 

Death,  thou  wast  once  an  uncouth,  hideous  thing — 
Nothing  but  bones, 
The  sad  effect  of  sadder  groans : 
Thy  mouth  was  open,  but  thou  couldst  not  sing. 

1  Equivalent  to  "  What  are  those  hands  of  yours  for  ?  " 
s.L.  iv.  N 


178  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

No  writer  before  him  has  shown  such  a  love  to 
God,  such  a  childlike  confidence  in  him.  The  love  is 
like  the  love  of  those  whose  verses  came  first  in  my 
volume.  But  the  nation  had  learned  to  think  more, 
and  new  difficulties  had  consequently  arisen.  These, 
again,  had  to  be  undermined  by  deeper  thought, 
and  the  discovery  of  yet  deeper  truth  had  been  the 
reward.  Hence,  the  love  itself,  if  it  had  not  strength- 
ened, had  at  least  grown  deeper.  And  George  Her- 
bert had  had  difficulty  enough  in  himself;  for,  born 
of  high  family,  by  nature  fitted  to  shine  in  that 
society  where  elegance  of  mind,  person,  carriage,  and 
utterance  is  most  appreciated,  and  having  indeed 
enjoyed  something  of  the  life  of  a  courtier,  he  had 
forsaken  all  in  obedience  to  the  voice  of  his  higher 
nature.  Hence  the  struggle  between  his  tastes  and 
his  duties  would  come  and  come  again,  augmented 
probably  by  such  austere  notions  as  every  conscien- 
tious man  must  entertain  in  proportion  to  his  ina- 
bility to  find  God  in  that  in  which  he  might  find  him. 
From  this  inability,  inseparable  in  its  varying  degrees 
from  the  very  nature  of  growth,  springs  all  the 
asceticism  of  good  men,  whose  love  to  God  will  be 
the  greater  as  their  growing  insight  reveals  him  in  his 
world,  and  their  growing  faith  approaches  to  the 
giving  of  thanks  in  everything. 

When  we  have  discovered  the  truth  that  whatsoever 
is  not  of  faith  is  sin,  the  way  to  meet  it  is  not  to  for- 
sake the  human  law,  but  so  to  obey  it  as  to  thank 
God  for  it.  To  leave  the  world  and  go  into  the  desert 
is  not  thus  to  give  thanks  :  it  may  have  been  the  only 


THE  COLLAR.  I79 


way  for  this  or  that  man,  in  his  blameless  blindness, 
to  take.  The  divine  mind  of  George  Herbert,  how- 
ever, was  in  the  main  bent  upon  discovering  God 
everywhere. 

The  poem  I  give  next,  powerfully  sets  forth  the 
struggle  between  liking  and  duty  of  which  I  have 
spoken.  It  is  at  the  same  time  an  instance  of  wonder- 
ful art  in  construction,  all  the  force  of  the  germinal 
thought  kept  in  reserve,  to  burst  forth  at  the  last. 
He  calls  it — meaning  by  the  word,  Gods  Restraint — 

THE  COLLAR. 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cried  "No  more  !— 

I  will  abroad. 
What  !  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine  ? 
My  lines  and  life  are  free— free  as  the  road, 
Loose  as  the  wind,  as  large  as  store. 

Shall  I  be  still  in  suit  ? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  blood,  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordial  fruit  ? 
Sure  there  was  wine 
Before  my  sighs  did  dry  it!     There  was  corn 
Before  my  tears  did  drown  it ! 
Is  the  year  only  lost  to  me  ? 

Have  I  no  bays  to  crown  it  ? 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay  ?     All  blasted  ? 
All  wasted  ? 
Not  so,  my  heart ;  but  there  is  fruit, 

And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On  double  pleasures.     Leave  thy  cold  dispute 
Of  what  is  fit,  and  not.     Forsake  thy  cage, 

Thy  rope  of  sands, 
Which  petty  thoughts  have  made— and  made  to  thee 
Good  cable,  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law, 
While  thou  didst  wink  and  wouldst  not  see. 
N  2 


1 80  ENGLAND 'S  AN  TIP  HON 

Away  !     Take  heed — 
I  will  abroad. 
Call  in  thy  death's-head  there.     Tie  up  thy  fears. 
He  that  forbears 
To  suit  and  serve  his  need, 
Deserves  his  load." 
But  as  I  raved,  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wild 
At  eveiy  word, 
Methought  I  heard  one  calling  "  Child!" 
And  I  replied,  "  My  Lord!" 

Coming  now  to  speak  of  his  art,  let  me  say  some- 
thing first  about  his  use  of  homeliest  imagery  for 
highest  thought.  This,  I  think,  is  in  itself  enough 
to  class  him  with  the  highest  kind  of  poets.  If  my 
reader  will  refer  to  The  Elixir,  he  will  see  an  instance 
in  the  third  stanza,  u.  You  may  look  at  the  glass,  or 
at  the  sky : ''  "  You  may  regard  your  action  only,  or 
that  action  as  the  will  of  God."  Again,  let  him  listen 
to  the  pathos  and  simplicity  of  this  one  stanza,  from  a 
poem  he  calls  The  Flower.  He  has  been  in  trouble ; 
his  times  have  been  evil  ;  he  has  felt  a  spiritual 
old  age  creeping  upon  him ;  but  he  is  once  more 
awake. 

And  now  in  age *  I  bud  again  ; 
After  so  many  deaths  I  live  and  write  ; 
I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain, 
And  relish  versing.     O  my  only  light, 
It  cannot  be 
That  I  am  he 
On  whom  thy  tempests  fell  all  night ! 

Again  : 

Some  may  dream  merrily,  but  when  they  wake 
They  dress  themselves  and  come  to  thee. 

1  He  was  but  thirty-nine  when  he  died. 


AARON'S  DRESS.  181 


He  has  an  exquisite  feeling  of  lyrical  art.  Not 
only  does  he  keep  to  one  idea  in  it,  but  he  finishes 
the  poem  like  a  cameo.  Here  is  an  instance  wherein 
he  outdoes  the  elaboration  of  a  Norman  trouvere ; 
for  not  merely  does  each  line  in  each  stanza  end 
with  the  same  sound  as  the  corresponding  line  in 
every  other  stanza,  but  it  ends  with  the  very  same 
word.  I  shall  hardly  care  to  defend  this  if  my  reader 
chooses  to  call  it  a  whim  ;  but  I  do  say  that  a  large 
degree  of  the  peculiar  musical  effect  of  the  poem — 
subservient  to  the  thought,  keeping  it  dimly  chiming 
in  the  head  until  it  breaks  out  clear  and  triumphant 
like  a  silver  bell  in  the  last — is  owing  to  this  use  of 
the  same  column  of  words  at  the  line-ends  of  every 
stanza.    Let  him  who  doubts  it,  read  the  poem  aloud. 

AARON. 

Holiness  on  the  head  ; 
Light  and  perfections  on  the  breast ; 
Harmonious  bells  below,  raising  the  dead, 
To  lead  them  unto  life  and  rest — 

Thus  are  true  Aarons  drest. 

Profaneness  in  my  head  ; 
Defects  and  darkness  in  my  breast ; 
A  noise  of  passions  ringing  me  for  dead 
Unto  a  place  where  is  no  rest — 

Poor  priest,  thus  am  I  drest ! 

Only  another  head 
I  have,  another  heart  and  breast, 
Another  music,  making  live,  not  dead, 
Without  whom  I  could  have  no  rest- 
In  him  I  am  well  drest. 
16 


1 82  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 

Christ  is  my  only  head, 
My  alone  only  heart  and  breast, 
My  only  music,  striking  me  even  dead, 
That  to  the  old  man  I  may  rest, 
And  be  in  him  new  drest. 

So,  holy  in  my  head, 
Perfect  and  light  in  my  dear  breast, 
My  doctrine  turned  by  Christ,  who  is  not  dead, 
But  lives  in  me  while  I  do  rest — 

Come,  people :  Aaron's  drest. 

Note  the  flow  and  the  ebb  of  the  lines  of  each 
stanza— from  six  to  eight  to  ten  syllables,  and  back 
through  eight  to  six,  the  number  of  stanzas  corre- 
sponding to  the  number  of  lines  in  each ;  only  the 
poem  itself  begins  with  the  ebb,  and  ends  with  a  full 
spring-flow  of  energy.  Note  also  the  perfect  anti- 
thesis in  their  parts  between  the  first  and  second 
stanzas,  and  how  the  last  line  of  the  poem  clenches 
the  whole  in  revealing  its  idea — that  for  the  sake  of 
which  it  was  written.     In  a  word,  note  the  unity. 

Born  in  1593,  notwithstanding  his  exquisite  art,  he 
could  not  escape  being  influenced  by  the  faulty  ten- 
dencies of  his  age,  borne  in  upon  his  youth  by  the 
example  of  his  mother's  friend,  Dr.  Donne.  A  man 
must  be  a  giant  like  Shakspere  or  Milton  to  cast  off 
his  age's  faults.  Indeed  no  man  has  more  of  the 
"  quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles  "  of  the  poetic 
spirit  of  his  time  than  George  Herbert,  but  with  this 
difference  from  the  rest  of  Dr.  Donne's  school,  that 
such  is  the  indwelling  potency  that  it  causes  even 
these  to  shine  with  a  radiance  such  that  we  wish 
them  still  to  burn  and  not  be  consumed.    His  muse  is 


GEORGE  HERBERT:  HIS  OVER- ART.         183 

seldom  other  than  graceful,  even  when  her  motions 
are  grotesque,  and  he  is  always  a  gentleman,  which 
cannot  be  said  of  his  master.  We  could  not  bear 
to  part  with  his  most  fantastic  oddities,  they  are  so 
interpenetrated  with  his  genius  as  well  as  his  art. 

In  relation  to  the  use  he  makes  of  these  faulty 
forms,  and  to  show  that  even  herein  he  has  exer- 
cised a  refraining  judgment,  though  indeed  fancying 
he  has  quite  discarded  in  only  somewhat  reforming 
it,  I  recommend  the  study  of  two  poems,  each  of 
which  he  calls  Jordan,  though  why  I  have  not  yet 
with  certainty  discovered. 

It  is  possible  that  not  many  of  his  readers  have 
observed  the  following  instances  of  the  freakish  in  his 
rhyming  art,  which  however  result  well.  When  I  say 
so,  I  would  not  be  supposed  to  approve  of  the  freak, 
but  only  to  acknowledge  the  success  of  the  poet  in 
his  immediate  intent.  They  are  related  to  a  cer- 
tain tendency  to  mechanical  contrivance  not  seldom 
associated  with  a  love  of  art :  it  is  art  operating 
in  the  physical  understanding.  In  the  poem  called 
Home,  every  stanza  is  perfectly  finished  till  the  last : 
in  it,  with  an  access  of  art  or  artfulness,  he  destroys 
the  rhyme.  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  my  reader  if  he 
calls  it  the  latter,  and  regards  it  as  art  run  to  seed. 

And   yet — and   yet I    confess    I    have  a   latent 

liking  for  the  trick.  I  shall  give  one  or  two  stanzas 
out  of  the  rather  long  poem,  to  lead  up  to  the  change 
in  the  last. 

Come,  Lord  ;  my  head  doth  burn,  my  heart  is  sick, 
While  thou  dost  ever,  ever  stay ; 


1 84  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Thy  long  deferrings  wound  me  to  the  quick ; 
My  spirit  gaspeth  night  and  day. 
O  show  thyself  to  me, 
Or  take  me  up  to  thee. 

Nothing  but  drought  and  dearth,  but  bush  and  brake, 

Which  way  soe'er  I  look  I  see  : 
Some  may  dream  merrily,  but  when  they  wake 
They  dress  themselves  and  come  to  thee. 
O  show  thyself  to  me, 
Or  take  me  up  to  thee. 

Come,  dearest  Lord,  pass  not  this  holy  season, 

My  flesh  and  bones  and  joints  do  pray  ; 
And  even  my  verse,  when  by  the  rhyme  and  reason 
The  word  is  slay?-  says  ever  come. 
O  show  thyself  to  me, 
Or  take  me  up  to  thee. 

Balancing  this,  my  second  instance  is  of  the  con- 
verse. In  all  the  stanzas  but  the  last,  the  last  line  in 
each  hangs  unrhymed  :  in  the  last  the  rhyming  is 
fulfilled.  The  poem  is  called  Denial.  I  give  only 
a  part  of  it. 

When  my  devotions  could  not  pierce 
Thy  silent  ears, 
Then  was  my  heart  broken  as  was  my  verse  ; 
My  breast  was  full  of  fears 
And  disorder. 

O  that  thou  shouldst  give  dust  a  tongue 
To  cry  to  thee, 
And  then  not  hear  it  crying !     All  day  long 
My  heart  was  in  my  knee  : 
But  no  hearing  ! 


1  To  rhyme  with  pray  in  the  second  line. 


THE  PULLEY.  185 


Therefore  my  soul  lay  out  of  sight, 
Untuned,  unstrung; 
My  feeble  spirit,  unable  to  look  right, 
Like  a  nipt  blossom,  hung 
Discontented. 

O  cheer  and  tune  my  heartless  breast — 
Defer  no  time ; 
That  so  thy  favours  granting  my  request, 
They  and  my  mind  may  chime, 
And  mend  my  rhyme. 

It  had    been   hardly  worth  the   space   to   point   out 

these,  were  not  the  matter  itself  precious. 

Before  making  further  remark  on  George  Herbert, 

let  me  present  one  of  his  poems  .in  which  the  oddity 

of  the  visual  fancy  is  only  equalled   by  the  beauty 

of  the  result. 

THE  PULLEY. 

When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessing  standing  by, 
"  Let  us,"  said  he,  "  pour  on  him  all  we  can  : 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 

Contract  into  a  span." 

So  strength  first  made  a  way ; 
Then  beauty  flowed  ;  then  wisdom,  honour,  pleasure. 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that,  alone  of  all  his  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

"  For  if  I  should,"  said  he, 
"  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature, 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me, 
And  rest  in  nature,  not  the  God  of  nature  : 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

"  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest — 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness  : 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that,  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  my  breast." 
16* 


186  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 

Is  it  not  the  story  of  the  world  written  with  the 
point  of  a  diamond  ? 

There  can  hardly  be  a  doubt  that  his  tendency  to 
unnatural  forms  was  encouraged  by  the  increase  of 
respect  to  symbol  and  ceremony  shown  at  this  period 
by  some  of  the  external  powers  of  the  church — Bishop 
Laud  in  particular.  Had  all,  however,  who  delight 
in  symbols,  a  power,  like  George  Herbert's,  of  setting 
even  within  the  horn-lanterns  of  the  more  arbitrary 
of  them,  such  a  light  of  poetry  and  devotion  that 
their  dull  sides  vanish  in  its  piercing  shine,  and  we 
forget  the  symbol  utterly  in  the  truth  which  it  can- 
not obscure,  then  indeed  our  part  would  be  to  take 
and  be  thankful.  But  there  never  has  been  even  a 
living  true  symbol  which  the  dulness  of  those  who 
will  see  the  truth  only  in  the  symbol  has  not  de- 
graded into  the  very  cockatrice-egg  of  sectarianism. 
The  symbol  is  by  such  always  more  or  less  idolized, 
and  the  light  within  more  or  less  patronized.  If  the 
truth,  for  the  sake  of  which  all  symbols  exist,  were 
indeed  the  delight  of  those  who  claim  it,  the  secta- 
rianism of  the  church  would  vanish.  But  men  on  all 
sides  call  that  the  truth  which  is  but  its  form  or 
outward  sign — material  or  verbal,  true  or  arbitrary, 
it  matters  not  which — and  hence  come  strifes  and 
divisions. 

Although  George  Herbert,  however,  could  thus 
illumine  all  with  his  divine  inspiration,  we  cannot 
help  wondering  whether,  if  he  had  betaken  himself 
yet  more  to  vital  and  less  to  half  artificial  symbols, 
the  change  would  not  have  been  a  breaking  of  the 


SYMBOLS  AND  SIGNS.  i37 

pitcher  and  an  outshining  of  the  lamp.  For  a  symbol 
may  remind  us  of  the  truth,  and  at  the  same  time 
obscure  it — present  it,  and  dull  its  effect.  It  is  the 
temple  of  nature  and  not  the  temple  of  the  church, 
the  things  made  by  the  hands  of  God  and  not  the 
things  made  by  the  hands  of  man,  thit  afford  the 
truest  symbols  of  truth. 

I  am  anxious  to  be  understood.  The  chief  symbol 
of  our  faith,  the  Cross,  it  may  be  said,  is  not  one  of 
these  natural  symbols.  I  answer — No  ;  but  neither 
is  it  an  arbitrary  symbol.  It  is  not  a  symbol  of  a 
truth  at  all,  but  of  a  fact,  of  the  infinitely  grandest 
fact  in  the  universe,  which  is  itself  the  outcome 
and  symbol  of  the  grandest  Truth.  The  Cross  is  an 
historical  sign,  not  properly  a  symbol,  except  through 
the  facts  it  reminds  us  of.  On  the  other  hand,  baptism 
and  the  eucharist  are  symbols  of  the  loftiest  and  pro- 
foundest  kind,  true  to  nature  and  all  its  meanings,  as 
well  as  to  the  facts  of  which  they  remind  us.  They 
are  in  themselves  symbols  of  the  truths  involved  in 
the  facts  they  commemorate. 

Of  Nature's  symbols  George  Herbert  has  made 
large  use  ;  but  he  would  have  been  yet  a  greater 
poet  if  he  had  made  a  larger  use  of  them  still. 
Then  at  least  we  might  have  got  rid  of  such  oddities 
as  the  stanzas  for  steps  up  to  the  church-door,  the 
first  at  the  bottom  of  the  page ;  of  the  lines  shaped 
into  ugly  altar-form  ;  and  of  the  absurd  Easter  wings, 
made  of  ever  lengthening  lines.  This  would  not 
have  been  much,  I  confess,  nor  the  gain  by  their  loss 
great  ;  but  not  to  mention  the  larger  supply  of  images 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


graceful  with  the  grace  of  God,  who  when  he  had 
made  them  said  they  were  good,  it  would  have  led 
to  the  further  purification  of  his  taste,  perhaps  even 
to  the  casting  out  of  all  that  could  untimely  move 
our  mirth  ;  until  possibly  (for  illustration),  instead  of 
this  lovely  stanza,  he  would  have  given  us  even  a 
lovelier : 

Listen,  sweet  dove,  unto  my  song, 

And  spread  thy  golden  wings  on  me ; 
Hatching  my  tender  heart  so  long, 

Till  it  get  wing,  and  fly  away  with  thee. 

The  stanza  is  indeed  lovely,  and  true  and  tender 
and  clever  as  well ;  yet  who  can  help  smiling  at  the 
notion  of  the  incubation  of  the  heart-egg,  although 
what  the  poet  means  is  so  good  that  the  smile 
almost  vanishes  in  a  sigh  ? 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  works  of  man's  hands  will 
also  afford  many  true  symbols  ;  but  I  do  think  that,  in 
proportion  as  a  man  gives  himself  to  those  instead  of 
studying  Truth's  wardrobe  of  forms  in  nature,  so  will 
he  decline  from  the  high  calling  of  the  poet.  George 
Herbert  was  too  great  to  be  himself  much  injured  by 
the  narrowness  of  the  field  whence  he  gathered  his 
symbols  ;  but  his  song  will  be  the  worse  for  it  in  the 
ears  of  all  but  those  who,  having  lost  sight  of  or 
having  never  beheld  the  oneness  of  the  God  whose 
creation  exists  in  virtue  of  his  redemption,  feel  safer 
in  a  low-browed  crypt  than  under  "the  high  em- 
bowed  roof." 

When  the  desire  after  system  or  order  degenerates 
from  a  need  into  a  passion,  or  ruling  idea,  it  closes,  as 


THE  PROFESSIONAL  WORM:  189 


may  be  seen  in  many  women  who  are  especial  house- 
keepers, like  an  unyielding  skin  over  the  mind,  tp  the 
death  of  all  development  from  impulse  and  aspiration. 
The  same  thing  holds  in  the  church  :  anxiety  about 
order  and  system  will  kill  the  life.  This  did  not  go 
near  to  being  the  result  with  George  Herbert  :  his 
life  was  hid  with  Christ  in  God  ;  but  the  influence  of 
his  profession,  as  distinguished  from  his  work,  was 
hurtful  to  his  calling  as  a  poet.  He  of  all  men  would 
scorn  to  claim  social  rank  for  spiritual  service  ;  he  of 
all  men  would  not  commit  the  blunder  of  supposing 
that  prayer  and  praise  are  that  service  of  God  :  they 
are  prayer  and  praise,  not  service  ;  he  knew  that  God 
can  be  served  only  through  loving  ministration  to 
his  sons  and  daughters,  all  needy  of  commonest 
human  help  :  but,  as  the  most  devout  of  clergymen 
will  be  the  readiest  to  confess,  there  is  even  a  danger 
to  their  souls  in  the  unvarying  recurrence  of  the  out- 
ward obligations  of  their  service  ;  and,  in  like  manner, 
the  poet  will  fare  ill  if  the  conventions  from  which 
the  holiest  system  is  not  free  send  him  soaring  with 
sealed  eyes.  George  Herbert's  were  but  a  little 
blinded  thus ;  yet  something,  we  must  allow,  his 
poetry  was  injured  by  his  profession.  All  that  I  say 
on  this  point,  however,  so  far  from  diminishing  his 
praise,  adds  thereto,  setting  forth  only  that  he  was 
such  a  poet  as  might  have  been  greater  yet,  had  the 
divine  gift  had  free  course.  But  again  I  rebuke 
myself  and  say,  "  Thank  God  for  George  Herbert." 

To  rid  our  spiritual  palates  of  the  clinging  flavour 
of  criticism,  let  me   choose  another   song   from  his 


190  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 

precious  legacy — one  less  read,  I  presume,  than  many. 
It  shows  his  tendency  to  asceticism — the  fancy  of 
forsaking  God's  world  in  order  to  serve  him ;  it  has 
besides  many  of  the  faults  of  the  age,  even  to  that 
of  punning  ;  yet  it  is  a  lovely  bit  of  art  as  well  as  a 
rich  embodiment  of  tenderness. 

THE  THANKSGIVING. 

Oh  King  of  grief !  a  title  strange  yet  true, 

To  thee  of  all  kings  only  due  ! 
Oh  King  of  wounds  !  how  shall  I  grieve  for  thee, 

Who  in  all  grief  preventest  me  ?  goest  before  me. 

Shall  I  weep  blood  ?     Why,  thou  hast  wept  such  store, 

That  all  thy  body  was  one  gore. 
Shall  I  be  scourged,  flouted,  boxed,  sold? 

'Tis  but  to  tell  the  tale  is  told. 
My  God,  my  God,  why  dost  thou  part  from  me  ? 

Was  such  a  grief  as  cannot  be. 
Shall  I  then  sing,  skipping  thy  doleful  story, 

And  side  with  thy  triumphant  glory  ? 
Shall  thy  strokes  be  my  stroking  ?  thorns  my  flower  ? 

Thy  rod.  my  posy?1  cross,  my  bower? 
But  how  then  shall  I  imitate  thee,  and 

Copy  thy  fair,  though  bloody  hand  ? 
Surely  I  will  revenge  me  on  thy  love, 

And  try  who  shall  victorious  prove. 
If  thou  dost  give  me  wealth,  I  will  restore 

All  back  unto  thee  by  the  poor. 
If  thou  dost  give  me  honour,  men  shall  see 

The  honour  doth  belong  to  thee. 
I  will  not  marry  ;  or  if  she  be  mine, 

She  and  her  children  shall  be  thine. 
My  bosom-friend,  if  he  blaspheme  thy  name, 

I  will  tear  thence  his  love  and  fame. 
One  half  of  me  being  gone,  the  rest  I  give 

Unto  some  chapel — die  or  live. 

1  Bunch  of  flowers.      He  was  thinking  of  Aaron's  rod,  perhaps. 


THE  REPRISAL.  191 


As  for  my  Passion  1 — But  of  that  anon, 

When  with  the  other  I  have  done. 
For  thy  Predestination,  I'll  contrive 

That,  three  years  hence,  if  I  survive*3 
I'll  build  a  spital,  or  mend  common  ways, 

But  mend  my  own  without  delays. 
Then  I  will  use  the  works  of  thy  creation, 

As  if  I  used  them  but  for  fashion. 
The  world  and  I  will  quarrel ;  and  the  year 

Shall  not  perceive  that  I  am  here. 
My  music  shall  find  thee,  and  every  string 

Shall  have  his  attribute  to  sing,  its. 

That  all  together  may  accord  in  thee, 

And  prove  one  God,  one  harmony. 
If  thou  shalt  give  me  wit,  it  shall  appear  ; 

If  thou  hast  given  it  me,  'tis  here. 
Nay,  I  will  read  thy  book,3  and  never  move 

Till  I  have  found  therein  thy  love — 
Thy  art  of  love,  which  I'll  turn  back  on  thee  : 

O  my  dear  Saviour,  Victory  ! 
Then  for  my  Passion — I  will  do  for  that — - 

Alas,  my  God  !  I  know  not  what. 

With  the  preceding  must  be  taken  the  following, 
which  comes  immediately  after  it. 


5  HE  REPRISAL. 

I  have  considered  it,  and  find 
There  is  no  dealing  with  thy  mighty  Passion ; 
For  though  I  die  for  thee,  I  am  behind  : 

My  sins  deserve  the  condemnation. 


1  To  correspond  to  that  of  Christ. 

2  Again  a  touch  of  holy  humour:   to  match  his  Master's  predestina- 
tion, he  will  contrive  something  three  years  beforehand,  with  an  if. 

3  The  here  in  the  preceding  line  means  his  book;  hence  the  thy  book 
is  antithetical. 


192  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON 

O  make  me  innocent,  that  I 
May  give  a  disentangled  state  and  free  ; 
And  yet  thy  wounds  still  my  attempts  defy, 

For  by  thy  death  I  die  for  thee. 

Ah  !  was  it  not  enough  that  thou 
By  thy  eternal  glory  didst  outgo  me  ? 
Couldst  thou  not  grief's  sad  conquest  me  allow, 

But  in  all  victories  overthrow  me  ? 

Yet  by  confession  will  I  come 
Into  the  conquest :  though  I  can  do  nought 
Against  thee,  in  thee  I  will  overcome 

The  man  who  once  against  thee  fought. 

Even  embracing  the  feet  of  Jesus,  Mary  Magdalene 
or  George  Herbert  must  rise  and  go  forth  to  do  his 
will. 

It  will  be  observed  how  much  George  Herbert  goes 
beyond  all  that  have  preceded  him,  in  the  expression 
of  feeling  as  it  flows  from  individual  conditions,  in 
the  analysis  of  his  own  moods,  in  the  logic  of  wor- 
ship, if  I  may  say  so.  His  utterance  is  not  merely  of 
personal  love  and  grief,  but  of  the  peculiar  love  and 
grief  in  the  heart  of  George  Herbert.  There  may 
be  disease  in  such  a  mind  ;  but,  if  there  be,  it  is  a 
disease  that  will  burn  itself  out.  Such  disease  is,  for 
men  constituted  like  him,  the  only  path  to  health.  By 
health  I  mean  that  simple  regard  to  the  truth,  to  the 
will  of  God,  which  will  turn  away  a  man's  eyes  from 
his  own  conditions,  and  leave  God  free  to  work  his 
perfection  in  him — free,  that  is,  of  the  interference  of 
the  man's  self-consciousness  and  anxiety.  To  this 
perfection  St.  Paul  had  come  when  he  no  longer  cried 
out  against  the  body  of  his  death,  no  more  judged 


DISEASE  THE  PATH  TO  HEALTH.  193 

his  own  self,  but  left  all  to  the  Father,  caring  only 
to  do  his  will.  It  was  enough  to  him  then  that  God 
should  judge  him,  for  his  will  is  the  one  good  thing 
securing  all  good  things.  Amongst  the  keener  de- 
lights of  the  life  which  is  at  the  door,  I  look  for  the 
face  of  George  Herbert,  with  whom  to  talk  humbly 
would  be  in  bliss  a  higher  bliss. 

17 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


JOHN    MILTON. 


JOHN  MlLTON,  born  in  1608,  was  twenty-four  years 
of  age  when  George  Herbert  died.  Hardly  might  two 
good  men  present  a  greater  contrast  than  these.  In 
power  and  size,  Milton  greatly  excels.  If  George 
Herbert's  utterance  is  like  the  sword-play  of  one  skil- 
ful with  the  rapier,  that  of  Milton  is  like  the  sword-play 
of  an  old  knight,  flashing  his  huge  but  keen-cutting 
blade  in  lightnings  about  his  head.  Compared  with 
Herbert,  Milton  was  a  man  in  health.  He  nrver 
shows,  at  least,  any  diseased  regard  of  himself.  His 
eye  is  fixed  on  the  truth,  and  he  knows  of  no  ill- 
faring.  While  a  man  looks  thitherward,  all  the  move- 
ments of  his  spirit  reveal  themselves  only  in  peace. 

Everything  conspired,  or,  should  I  not  rather  say? 
everything  was  freely  given,  to  make  Milton  a  great 
poet.  Leaving  the  original  seed  of  melody,  the 
primordial  song  in  the  soul  which  all  his  life  was  an 
effort  to  utter,  let  us  regard  for  a  moment  the  cir- 
cumstances that  favoured  its  development. 

From  childhood  he  had  listened  to  the  sounds  of 
the  organ  ;  doubtless  himself  often  gave  breath  to  the 


THE  BLINDED  NIGHTINGALE.  195 

soundboard  with  his  hands  on  the  lever  of  the  bellows, 
while  his  father's 

volant  touch, 
Instinct  through  all  proportions  low  and  high, 
Fled  and  pursued  transverse  the  resonant  fugue  ; 

and  the  father's  organ-harmony  we  yet  hear  in  the 
son's  verse  as  in  none  but  his.  Those  organ-sounds 
he  has  taken  for  the  very  breath  of  his  speech,  and 
articulated  them.  He  had  education  and  leisure,  free- 
dom to  think,  to  travel,  to  observe  :  he  was  more  than 
thirty  before  he  had  to  earn  a  mouthful  of  bread  by 
his  own  labour.  Rushing  at  length  into  freedom's 
battle,  he  stood  in  its  storm  with  his  hand  on  the 
wheel  of  the  nation's  rudder,  shouting  many  a  bold 
word  for  God  and  the  Truth,  until,  fulfilled  of  expe- 
rience as  of  knowledge,  God  set  up  before  him  a  canvas 
of  utter  darkness  :  he  had  to  fill  it  with  creatures  of 
radiance.  God  blinded  him  with  his  hand,  that,  like 
the  nightingale,  he  might  "  sing  darkling."  Beyond 
all,  his  life  was  pure  from  his  childhood,  without  which 
such  poetry  as  his  could  never  have  come  to  the  birth. 
It  is  the  pure  in  heart  who  shall  see  God  at  length  ;  the 
pure  in  heart  who  now  hear  his  harmonies.  More 
than  all  yet,  he  devoted  himself  from  the  first  to  the 
will  of  God,  and  his  prayer  that  he  might  write  a 
great  poem  was  heard. 

The  unity  of  his  being  is  the  strength  of  Milton. 
He  is  harmony,  sweet  and  bold,  throughout.  Not 
Philip  Sidney,  not  George  Herbert  loved  words  and 
their  melodies  more  than  he  ;  while  in  their  use  he 

O   2 


196  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

is  more  serious  than  either,  and  harder  to  please, 
uttering  a  music  they  have  rarely  approached.  Yet 
even  when  speaking  with  "most  miraculous  organ," 
with  a  grandeur  never  heard  till  then,  he  overflows 
in  speech  more  like  that  of  other  men  than  theirs — he 
utters  himself  more  simply,  straightforwardly,  digni- 
fiedly,  than  they.  His  modes  are  larger  and  more 
human,  more  near  to  the  forms  of  primary  thought. 
Faithful  and  obedient  to  his  art,  he  spends  his  power 
in  no  diversions.  Like  Shakspere,  he  can  be  silent, 
never  hesitating  to  sweep  away  the  finest  lines  should 
they  mar  the  intent,  progress,  and  flow  of  his  poem. 
Even  while  he  sings  most  abandonedly,  it  is  ever 
with  a  care  of  his  speech,  it  is  ever  with  ordered 
words :  not  one  shall  dull  the  clarity  of  his  verse  by 
unlicensed,  that  is,  needless  presence.  But  let  not  my 
reader  fancy  that  this  implies  laborious  utterance 
and  strained  endeavour.  It  is  weakness  only  which 
by  the  agony  of  visible  effort  enhances  the  magnitude 
of  victory.  The  trained  athlete  will  move  with  the 
grace  of  a  child,  for  he  has  not  to  seek  how  to  effect 
that  which  he  means  to  perform.  Milton  has  only  to 
take  good  heed,  and  with  no  greater  effort  than  it 
costs  the  ordinary  man  to  avoid  talking  like  a  fool, 
he  sings  like  an  archangel. 

But  I  must  not  enlarge  my  remarks,  for  of  his 
verse  even  I  can  find  room  for  only  a  few  lyrics.  In 
them,  however,  we  shall  still  find  the  simplest  truth, 
the  absolute  of  life,  the  poet's  aim.  He  is  ever 
soaring  towards  the  region  beyond  perturbation,  the 
true  condition  of  soul ;  that  is,  wherein  a  man  shall 


MILTON  IN  YOUTH  AND  IN  MIDDLE  AGE.    197 

see  things  even  as  God  would  have  him  see  them. 
He  has  no  time  to  droop  his  pinions,  and  sit  moody 
even  on  the  highest  pine :  the  sun  is  above  him  ;  he 
must  fly  upwards. 

The  youth  who  at  three-and-twenty  could  write  the 
following  sonnet,  might  well  at  five-and-forty  be 
capable  of  writing  the  one  that  follows : 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth  year  ! 

My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 

But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom  shew'th. 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the  truth 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near ; 

And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear, 

That  some  more  timely  happy  spirits  endu'th. 

Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 

It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 

To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 

Toward  which  time  leads  me  and  the  will  of  heaven  : 

All  is — if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so 

As  ever  in  my  great  Task-master's  eye. 

The  It  which  is  the  subject  of  the  last  six  lines  is 
his  Ripeness :  it  will  keep  pace  with  his  approaching 
lot ;  when  it  arrives  he  will  be  ready  for  it,  whatever 
it  may  be.  The  will  of  heaven  is  his  happy  fate. 
Even  at  three-and-twenty,  "he  that  believeth  shall 
not  make  haste."  Calm  and  open-eyed,  he  works  tc 
be  ripe,  and  waits  for  the  work  that  shall  follow. 

At  forty-five,  then,  he  writes  thus  concerning  his 
blindness : 

When  I  consider  how  my  life  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent,  which  is  death  to  hide, 
17* 


198  ENGLAND'S  AN  TIP  HON. 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 

My  true  account,  lest  he,  returning,  chide — 

"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied  ?  " 

I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent  foolishly. 

That  murmur,  soon  repl'^s  :  "God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts  :  who  best 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best :  his  state 

Is  kingly  :  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest : 

They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait. " 

That  is,  "  stand  and  wait,  ready  to  go  when  they 
are  called."  Everybody  knows  the  sonnet,  but  how 
could  I  omit  it  ?  Both  sonnets  will  grow  more  and 
more  luminous  as  they  are  regarded. 

The  following  I  incline  to  think  the  finest  of  his 
short  poems,  certainly  the  grandest  of  them.  It  is  a 
little  ode,  written  to  be  set  on  a  clock-case. 

ON  TIME. 

Fly,  envious  Time,  till  thou  run  out  thy  race. 

Call  on  the  lazy  leaden-stepping  hours, 

Whose  speed  is  but  the  heavy  plummet's  pace, 

And  glut  thyself  with  what  thy  womb  devours — 

Which  is  no  more  than  what  is  false  and  vain, 

And  merely  mortal  dross  : 

So  little  is  our  loss  ! 

So  little  is  thy  gain  ! 

For  whenas  each  thing  bad  thou  hast  entombed, 

And  last  of  all  thy  greedy  self  consumed, 

Then  long  eternity  shall  greet  our  bliss 

With  an  individual  kiss  ;  that  cannot  be  divided — 

And  joy  shall  overtake  us  as  a  flood  ;  {eternal. 

When  everything  that  is  sincerely  good, 

And  perfectly  divine 

With  truth  and  peace  and  love,  shall  ever  shine 


AT  A  SOLEMN  MUSIC.  199 

About  the  supreme  throne 

Of  him  to  whose  happy-making  sight  alone 

When  once  our  heavenly-guided  soul  shall  climb, 

Then,  all  this  earthy  grossness  quit, 

Attired  with  stars,  we  shall  for  ever  sit 

Triumphing  over  Death  and  Chance  and  thee,  O  Time. 

The  next  I  give  is  likewise  an  ode— a  more  beauti- 
ful one.  Observe  in  both  the  fine  effect  of  the  short 
lines,  essential  to  the  nature  of  the  ode,  being  that 
which  gives  its  solemnity  the  character  yet  of  a  song, 
or  rather,  perhaps,  of  a  chant. 

In  this  he  calls  upon  Voice  and  Verse  to  rouse  and 
raise  our  imagination  until  we  hear  the  choral  song  of 
heaven,  and  hearing  become  able  to  sing  in  tuneful 
response. 

AT  A  SOLEMN  MUSIC. 

Blest  pair  of  sirens,  pledges  of  heaven's  joy 

Sphere-born  harmonious  sisters,  Voice  and  Verse, 

Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixed  power  employ — 

Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to  pierce — 

And  to  our  high-raised  phantasy  present 

That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concent 1 

Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-coloured  throne 

To  him  that  sits  thereon, 

With  saintly  shout,  and  solemn  jubilee  ; 

Where  the  bright  seraphim,  in  burning  row, 

Their  loud  uplifted  angel  trumpets  blow  ; 

And  the  cherubic  host  in  thousand  choirs, 

Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 

With  those  just  spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms, 

Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 

Singing  everlastingly  ; 


1  Concent  is  a  singing  together,  or  harmoniously. 


ENGLAND'S  ANT1PH0N. 


That  we  on  earth,  with  undiscording  voice, 

May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise — 

As  once  we  did,  till  disproportioned  x  Sin 

Jarred  against  Nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 

Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 

To  their  great  Lord,  whose  love  their  motion  swayed 

In  perfect  diapason,  2  whilst  they  stood 

In  first  obedience  and  their  state  of  good. 

O  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  song, 

And  keep  in  tune  with  heaven,  till  God  ere  long 

To  his  celestial  consort3  us  unite, 

To  live  with  him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of  light ! 

Music  was  the  symbol  of  all  Truth  to  Milton.  He 
would  count  it  falsehood  to  write  an  unmusical  verse. 
I  allow  that  some  of  his  blank  lines  may  appear  un- 
rhythmical ;  but  Experience,  especially  if  she  bring 
with  her  a  knowledge  of  Dante,  will  elucidate  all 
their  movements.  I  exhort  my  younger  friends  to 
read  Milton  aloud  when  they  are  alone,  and  thus 
learn  the  worth  of  word-sounds.  They  will  find  him 
even  in  this  an  educating  force.  The  last  ode  ought 
to  be  thus  read  for  the  magnificent  dance-march  of 
its  motion,  as  well  as  for  its  melody. 

Show  me  one  who  delights  in  the  Hymn  on  the 
Nativity,  and  I  will  show  you  one  who  may  never 
indeed  be  a  singer  in  this  world,  but  who  is  already  a 
listener  to  the  best.  But  how  different  it  is  from 
anything  of  George  Herbert's  i  It  sets  forth  no  feeling 
peculiar  to  Milton  ;  it  is  an  outburst  of  the  gladness  of 
the  company  of  believers.    Every  one  has  at  least  read 

1  Music  depends  all  on  proportions. 

s  The  diapason  is  the  octave.     Therefore  "all  notes  true." 
See  note  2,  p.  205. 


HYMN  ON  THE  NA  TIVITY.  201 

the  glorious  poem  ;  but  were  I  to  leave  it  out  I  should 
have  lost,  not  the  sapphire  of  aspiration,  not  the 
topaz  of  praise,  not  the  emerald  of  holiness,  but  the 
carbuncle  of  delight  from  the  high  priest's  breast- 
plate. And  I  must  give  the  introduction  too  :  it  is 
the  cloudy  grove  of  an  overture,  whence  rushes  the 
torrent  of  song. 

ON  THE  MORNI-NG  OF  CHRIST'S   NATIVITY. 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn, 
Wherein  the  son  of  heaven's  eternal  king, 

Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring  ; 
For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing, 

That  he  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 
And  with  his  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  insufferable, 

And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty, 
Wherewith  he  wont1  at  heaven's  high  council-table 

To  sit  the  midst  of  trinal  unity, 

He  laid  aside,  and  here  with  us  to  be, 
Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay. 

Say,  heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 
Afford  a  present  to  the  infant  God  ? 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain 
To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  abode, 
Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod, 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 
And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in  squadrons  bright  ? 

See  how,  from  far  upon  the  eastern  road, 

The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odours  sweet  ! 
O  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode, 

1  An  intransitive  verb  :  he  was  wont. 


202  ENGLAND'S  ANT1PH0N. 


And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet ; 
Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet ; 
And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel  choir, 
From  out  his  secret  altar  touched  with  hallowed  fire. 


THE   HYMN. 

It  was  the  winter  wild 
While  the  heaven-born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies  ; 
Nature,  in  awe  to  him, 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 
With  her  great  master  so  to  sympathize  : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 
To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow; 
And  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 
The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw; 
Confounded  that  her  maker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace. 
She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 
His  ready  harbinger, 
With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing ; 
And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound, 

Was  heard  the  world  around  ; 
The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  uphung  ; 

The  hooked  chariot  stood 

Unstained  with  hostile  blood  ; 
The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng ; 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye,  awe-filled. 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  Lord  was  by. 


THE  NATIVITY.  203 


But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began  ; 

The  winds,  with  wonder  whist,  silent. 

Smoothly  the  water  kissed, 
Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  Ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm1  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave. 

The  stars  with  deep  amaze 
Stand  fixed  in  stedfast  gaze, 
Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence ; 
And  will  not  take  their  flight 
For  all  the  morning  light, 
Or  Lucifer,2  that  often  warned  them  thence  ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 
The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  flame 
The  new  enlightened  world  no  more  should  need  : 
He  saw  a  greater  sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne  or  burning  axle-tree  could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 

Or  e'er  the  point  of  dawn,  ere  ever. 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row  : 

Full  little  thought  they  than  then. 

That  the  mighty  Pan  3 
Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below  ; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep. 


1  The  birds  called  halcyons  were  said  to  build  their  nests  on  the 
water,  and,  while  they  were  brooding,  to  keep  it  calm. 

2  The  morning  star. 

3  The  God  of  shepherds  especially,  but  the  God  of  all  nature— the 
All  in  all,  for  Pan  means  the  All. 


204  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 
As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook — 
Divinely  warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took  : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly  close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound, 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 
Of  Cynthia's  seat x  the  airy  region  thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done, 
And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling  : 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier  union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light, 
That  with  long  beams  the  shame-faced  night  arrayed  ; 
The  helmed  cherubim 
And  sworded  seraphim 
Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  displayed, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  choir, 
With  unexpressive  2  notes  to  heaven's  new-born  heir. 

Such  music,  as  'tis  said, 
Before  was  never  made, 
But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set, 
And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung,8 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep. 


i  Milton  here  uses  the  old  Ptolemaic  theory  of  a  succession  of  solid 
crystal  concentric  spheres,  in  which  the  heavenly  bodies  were  fixed, 
and  which  revolving  carried  these  with  them.  The  lowest  or  innermost 
of  these  spheres  was  that  of  the  moon.  "  The  hollow  round  of  Cynthia's 
seat  "  is,  therefore,  this  sphere  in  which  the  moon  sits. 

2  That  cannot  be  expressed  or  described. 

s  By  hinges  he  means  the  axis  of  the  earth,  on  which  it  turns  as  on  a 
hinge.     The  origin  of  hinge  is  hang.     It  is  what  anything  hangs  on. 


THE  NATIVITY.  205 


Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres  ; 
Once  bless  our  human  ears — 
If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so;1 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time  ; 
And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow ; 
And,  with  your  ninefold  harmony, 
Make  up  full  consort2  to  the  angelic  symphony.8 

For  if  such  holy  song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 
Time  will  run  back  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold ; 
And  speckled  vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die  ;4 
And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould  ; 
And  hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 

Yea,  truth  and  justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 
Orbed  in  a  rainbow  ;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between, 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 


1  This  is  an  apostrophe  to  the  nine  spheres  (see  former  note),  which 
were  believed  by  the  ancients  to  send  forth  in  their  revolutions  a  grand 
harmony,  too  loud  for  mortals  to  hear.  But  no  music  of  the  lower 
region  can  make  up  full  harmony  without  the  bass  of  heaven's  organ. 
The  music  of  the  spheres  was  to  Milton  the  embodiment  of  the  theory  of 
the  universe.     He  uses  the  symbol  often. 

2  Consort  is  the  right  word  scientifically.  It  means  the  fitting  to- 
gether of  sounds  according  to  their  nature.  Concert,  however,  is  not 
wrong.  It  is  even  more  poetic  than  consort,  for  it  means  a  striving 
together,  which  is  the  idea  of  all  peace  :  the  strife  is  together,  and  not 
of  one  against  the  other.  All  harmony  is  an  ordered,  a  divine  strife. 
In  the  contest  of  music,  every  tone  restrains  its  foot  and  bows  its  head 
to  the  rest  in  holy  dance. 

3  Symphony  is  here  used  for  chorus,  and  quite  correctly;  for  symphony 
is  a  voicing  together.  To  this  symphony  of  the  angels  the  spheres  and 
the  heavenly  organ  are  the  accompaniment. 

*  Die  of  the  music 

18 


206  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering  ; 
And  heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace-hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  "  No  ; 
This  must  not  yet  be  so." 
The  babe  lies  yet  in  smiling  infancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss, 
So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify. 
Yet  first,  to  those  y-chained  in  sleep, 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through  the  deep, 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 
While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  outbrake  : 
The  aged  earth,  aghast 
With  terror  of  that  blast, 
Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake, 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  his  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is  : 
But  now  begins  ;  for  from  this  happy  day, 
The  old  dragon,  under  ground 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway  ; 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges1  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail.3 

The  oracles  are  dumb  :  3 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving ; 


1  Not  merely  swings,  but  lashes  about. 

2  Full  of  folds  or  coils. 

3  The  legend  concerning  this  cessation  of  the  oracles  associates  it 
with  the  Crucifixion.  Milton  in  The  Nativity  represents  it  as  the  con- 
sequence of  the  very  presence  of  the  infant  Saviour.  War  and  lying 
are  banished  together. 


THE  NATIVITY.  207 


Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving ; 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale, 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 
The  parting  genius »  is  with  sighing  sent ; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn, 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets  mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth, 
And  on  the  holy  hearth, 
The  Lars  and  Lemures2  moan  with  midnight  plain!  ; 
In  urns  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 
Affrights  the  flamens  3  at  their  service  quaint ; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice-battered  god  of  Palestine  ; 

And  mooned  Ashtaroth,  the  Assyrian  Venus. 

Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine  ; 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn  ;  * 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz5  mourn. 


1  The  genius  is  the  local  god,  the  god  of  the  place  as  a  place. 

2  The  Lars  were  the  protecting  spirits  of  the  ancestors  of  the  family  ; 
the  Lemures  were  evil  spirits,  spectres,  or  bad  ghosts.  But  the  notions 
were  somewhat  indefinite. 

3  Flamen  was  the  word  used  for  priest  when  the  Romans  spoke  of 
the  priest  of  any  particular  divinity.  Hence  the  peculiar  power  in  the 
last  line  of  the  stanza. 

4  Jupiter  Ammon,  worshipped  in  Libya,  in  the  north  of  Africa,  under 
the  form  of  a  goat.     "  He  draws  in  his  horn." 

5  The  Syrian  Adonis. 


208  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol,  all  of  blackest  hue  : 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly l  king, 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue. 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast — 
Iris  and  Orus  and  the  dog  Anubis — haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  2  seen 
In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 
Trampling  the  unshowered3  grass  with  lowings  loud  ; 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest ; 
Nought  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his  shroud; 
In  vain,  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark, 
The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipped  ark  : 

He  feels,  from  Judah's  land, 
The  dreaded  infant's  hand  ; 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn. " 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide — 
Not  Typhon  huge,  ending  in  snaky  twine  : 
Our  babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed, 
Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 
'  Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail — 
Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave ; 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon-loved  maze. 


i  Frightful,  horrible,  as,  a  grisly  bear. 

2  Isis,   Orus,   Anubis,  and  Osiris,  all   Egyptian   divinities — the   last 
worshipped  in  the  form  of  a  bull. 

3  No  rain  falls  in  Egypt. 


PICTURES  AND  EPITHETS.  209 


But  see,  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  babe  to  rest : 
Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending  ; 
Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star l 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 
Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp  attending  ; 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed2  angels  sit,  in  order  serviceable.  3 

If  my  reader  should  think    some  of  the   rhymes 
bad,  and  some  of  the   wordso  ddly  used,   I  would 
remind    him    that   both    pronunciations    and    mean- 
ings have  altered  since  :  the  probability  is,  that  the 
older  forms  in  both  are  the  better.     Milton  will  not 
use  a  wrong  word  or  a  bad  rhyme.     With  regard  to 
the  form  of  the  poem,  let  him  observe  the  variety 
of  length  of  line  in  the  stanza,  and  how  skilfully  the 
varied  lines  are  associated— two  of  six  syllables  and 
one  of  ten  ;  then  the  same  repeated  ;    then  one   of 
eight    and    one    of  twelve— no    two,    except    of  the 
shortest,  coming  together  of  the  same  length.      Its 
stanza  is   its  own:    I   do    not   know   another   poem 
written  in  the  same ;  and  its  music  is  exquisite.     The 
probability  is   that,   if  the   reader   note  any  fact   in 
the   poem,   however   trifling   it    might   seem    to   the 
careless  eye,   it  will    repay   him   by   unfolding  both 
individual  and  related  beauty.     Then  let  him  ponder 
the  pictures  given :  the  sudden  arraying  of  the  shame- 
faced night  in  long  beams  ;  the  amazed  kings  silent 
on  their  thrones ;  the  birds  brooding  on  the  sea :  he 
will  find  many  such.     Let  him  consider  the  clear-cut 

1  Last-born  :  the  star  in  the  east.  2  Bright-armoured. 

3  Ready  for  what  service  may  arise. 
S.L.  IV.  18* 


210  ENGLAND'S  AN  TIP  HON 

epithets,  so  full  of  meaning.  A  true  poet  may  be  at 
once  known  by  the  justice  and  force  of  the  adjectives 
he  uses,  especially  when  he  compounds  them, — that 
is,  makes  one  out  of  two.  Here  are  some  examples  : 
meek-eyed  Peace ;  pale-eyed  priest ;  speckled  vanity ; 
smouldering  clouds;  hideous  hum;  dismal  dance; 
dusky  eyne :  there  are  many  such,  each  almost  a 
poem  in  itself.  The  whole  is  a  succession  of  pictures 
set  in  the  loveliest  music  for  the  utterance  of  grandest 
thoughts. 

No  doubt  there  are  in  the  poem  instances  of  such 
faults  in  style  as  were  common  in  the  age  in  which  his 
verse  was  rooted  :  for  my  own  part,  I  never  liked  the 
first  two  stanzas  of  the  hymn.  But  such  instances 
are  few;  while  for  a  right  feeling  of  the  marvel  of 
this  poem  and  of  the  two  preceding  it,  we  must 
remember  that  Milton  was  only  twenty-one  when  he 
wrote  them. 

Apparently  to  make  one  of  a  set  with  the  Nativity, 
he  began  to  write  an  ode  on  the  Passion,  but,  finding 
the  subject  "above  the  years  he  had  when  he  wrote 
it,  and  nothing  satisfied  with  what  was  begun,  left 
it  unfinished."  The  fragment  is  full  of  unworthy, 
though  skilful,  and,  for  such,  powerful  conceits,  but 
is  especially  interesting  as  showing  how  even  Milton, 
trying  to  write  about  what  he  felt,  but  without  yet 
having  generated  thoughts  enow  concerning  the  sub- 
ject itself,  could  only  fall  back  on  conventionalities. 
Happy  the  young  poet  the  wisdom  of  whose  earliest 
years  was  such  that  he  recognized  his  mistake  almost 
at  the  outset,  and  dropped  the  attempt !     Amongst 


THE  PASSION.  211 


the  stanzas  there  is,  however,  one  of  exceeding  love- 
liness : 

He,  sovereign  priest,  stooping  his  regal  head, 

That  dropped  with  odorous  oil  down  his  fair  eyes, 

Poor  fleshly  tabernacle  entered, 

His  starry  front  low-roofed  beneath  the  skies. 

Oh  what  a  masque  wns  there  !  what  a  disguise  ! 

Yet  more  !  the  stroke  of  death  he  must  ahi<V  ; 

Then  lies  him  meekly  down  fast  by  his  brethren's  side. 

In  this  it  will  be  seen  that  he  has  left  the  jubilant 
measure  of  the  Hymn,  and  returned  to  the  more 
stately  and  solemn  rhyme-royal  of  its  overture,  as 
more  suited  to  his  subject.  Milton  could  not  be 
wrong  in  his  music,  even  when  he  found  the  quarry 
of  his  thought  too  hard  to  work. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

EDMUND   WALLER,   THOMAS    BROWN,    AND  JEREMY   TAYLOR. 

Edmund  Waller,  born  in  1605,  was  three  years 
older  than  Milton ;  but  I  had  a  fancy  for  not 
dividing  Herbert  and  Milton.  As  a  poet  he  had  a 
high  reputation  for  many  years,  gained  chiefly,  I 
think,  by  a  regard  to  literary  proprieties,  combined 
with  wit.  He  is  graceful  sometimes  ;  but  what  in 
his  writings  would  with  many  pass  for  grace,  is  only 
smoothness  and  the  absence  of  faults.  His  horses 
were  not  difficult  to  drive.  He  dares  little  and  suc- 
ceeds in  proportion — occasionally,  however,  flashing 
out  into  true  song.  In  politics  he  had  no  character 
— let  us  hope  from  weakness  rather  than  from  sel- 
fishness ;  yet,  towards  the  close  of  his  life,  he 
wrote  some  poems  which  reveal  a  man  not  unaccus- 
tomed to  ponder  sacred  things,  and  able  to  express 
his  thoughts  concerning  them  with  force  and  justice. 
From  a  poem  called  Of  Divine  Love,  I  gather  the 
following  very  remarkable  passages  :  I  wish  they  had 
been  enforced  by  greater  nobility  of  character.  Still 
they  are  in  themselves  true.  Even  where  we  have 
no  proof  of  repentance,  we  may  see  plentiful  signs  of 


EDMUND  WALLER:  OF  DIVINE  LOVE.      213 

a  growth  towards  it.  We  cannot  tell  how  long  the 
truth  may  of  necessity  require  to  interpenetrate  the 
ramifications  of  a  man's  nature.  By  slow  degrees 
he  discovers  that  here  it  is  not,  and  there  it  is  not. 
Again  and  again,  and  yet  again,  a  man  finds  that  he 
must  be  born  with  a  new  birth. 

The  fear  of  hell,  or  aiming  to  be  blest, 
Savours  too  much  of  private  interest : 
This  moved  not  Moses,  nor  the  zealous  Paul, 
Who  for  their  friends  abandoned  soul  and  all ; 
A  greater  yet  from  heaven  to  hell  descends, 
To  save  and  make  his  enemies  his  friends. 
***** 

That  early  love  of  creatures  yet  unmade, 
To  frame  the  world  the  Almighty  did  persuade. 
For  love  it  was  that  first  created  light, 
Moved  on  the  waters,  chased  away  the  night 
From  the  rude  chaos  ;  and  bestowed  new  grace 
On  things  disposed  of  to  their  proper  place — 
Some  to  rest  here,  and  some  to  shine  above : 
Earth,  sea,  and  heaven,  were  all  the  effects  of  love. 
***** 

Not  willing  terror  should  his  image  move, 
He  gives  a  pattern  of  eternal  love  : 
His  son  descends,  to  treat  a  peace  with  those 
Which  were,  and  must  have  ever  been,  his  foes. 
Poor  he  became,  and  left  his  glorious  seat, 
To  make  us  humble,  and  to  make  us  great; 
His  business  here  was  happiness  to  give  \ 

To  those  whose  malice  could  not  let  him  live. 
***** 

He  to  proud  potentates  would  not  be  known  : 
Of  those  that  loved  him,  he  was  hid  from  none. 
Till  love  appear,  we  live  in  anxious  doubt ; 
But  smoke  will  vanish  when  that  flame  breaks  out  : 
This  is  the  fire  that  would  consume  our  dross, 
Refine,  and  make  us  richer  by  the  loss. 


214  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

Who  for  himself  no  miracle  would  make, 
Dispensed  with  x  several  for  the  people's  sake. 
He  that,  long-fasting,  would  no  wonder  show, 
Made  loaves  and  fishes,  as  they  eat  them,  grow. 
Of  all  his  power,  which  boundless  was  above, 
Here  he  used  none  but  to  express  his  love  ; 
And  such  a  love  would  make  our  joy  exceed, 
Not  when  our  own,  but  others'  mouths  we  feed. 
***** 

Love  as  he  loved  !     A  love  so  unconfmed 
With  arms  extended  would  embrace  mankind. 
Self-love  would  cease,  or  be  dilated,  when 
We  should  behold  as  many  ^elfs  as  men  ; 
All  of  one  family,  in  blood  allied, 
His  precious  blood  that  for  our  ransom  died. 
***** 

Amazed  at  once  and  comforted,  to  find 
A  boundless  power  so  infinitely  kind, 
The  soul  contending  to  that  light  to  fly 
From  her  dark  cell,  we  practise  how  to  die, 
Employing  thus  the  poet's  winged  art 
To  reach  this  love,  and  grave  it  in  our  heart. 
Joy  so  complete,  so  solid,  and  severe, 
Would  leave  no  place  for  meaner  pleasures  there  : 
Pale  they  would  look,  as  stars  that  must  be  gone 
When  from  the  east  the  rising  sun  comes  on. 
***** 

To  that  and  some  other  poems  he  adds  the  follow- 
ing— a  kind  of  epilogue. 

ON  THE  FOREGOING  DIVINE  POEMS. 
When  we  for  age  could  neither  read  nor  write, 
The  subject  made  us  able  to  indite  : 
The  soul  with  nobler  resolutions  decked, 
The  body  stooping,  does  herself  erect  : 
No  mortal  parts  are  requisite  to  raise 
Her  that  unbodied  can  her  Maker  praise. 

i  The  with  we  should  now  omit,  for  when  we  use  it  we  mean  the 
opposite  of  what  is  meant  here. 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWN. 


The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er  : 
So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more  ; 
For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  so  certain  to  be  lost. 
Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes  tassion. 

Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries. 

The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 
Lets  in  new  light,  through  chinks  that  time  has  made  : 
Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become, 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 

It  would  be  a  poor  victory  where  age  was  the  sole 
conqueror.  But  I  doubt  if  age  ever  gains  the  victory 
alone.  Let  Waller,  however,  have  this  praise:  his 
song  soars  with  his  subject.  It  is  a  true  praise. 
There  are  men  who  write  well  until  they  try  the 
noble,  and  then  they  fare  like  the  falling  star,  which, 
when  sought  where  it  fell,  is,  according  to  an  old 
fancy,  discovered  a  poor  jelly. 

Sir  Thomas  Brown,  a  physician,  whose  prose  writings 
are  as  peculiar  as  they  are  valuable,  was  of  the  same 
age  as  Waller.  He  partakes  to  a  considerable  degree 
of  the  mysticism  which  was  so  much  followed  in  his 
day,  only  in  his  case  it  influences  his  literature  most 
— his  mode  of  utterance  more  than  his  mode  of 
thought.  His  True  Christian  Morals  is  a  very  valu- 
able book,  notwithstanding  the  obscurity  that  some- 
times arises  in  that,  as  in  all  his  writings,  from  his 
fondness  for  Latin  words.  The  following  fine  hymn 
occurs  in  his  Rcligio  Medici,  in  which  he  gives  an 
account  of  his  opinions.  I  am  not  aware  of  any- 
thing else  that  he  has  published  in  verse,  though  he 


216  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

must  probably  have  written  more  to  be  able  to  write 
this  so  well.  It  occurs  in  the  midst  of  prose,  as  the 
prayer  he  says  every  night  before  he  yields  to  the 
death  of  sleep.  I  follow  it  with  the  succeeding  sen- 
tence of  the  prose. 

The  night  is  come.     Like  to  the  day, 

Depart  not  thou,  great  God,  away. 

Let  not  my  sins,  black  as  the  night, 

Eclipse  the  lustre  of  thy  light. 

Keep  still  in  my  horizon,  for  to  me 

The  sun  makes  not  the  day  but  thee. 

Thou  whose  nature  cannot  sleep, 

On  my  temples  sentry  keep  ; 

Guard  me  'gainst  those  watchful  foes 

Whose  eyes  are  open  while  mine  close. 

Let  no  dreams  my  head  infest 

But  such  as  Jacob's  temples  blest. 

While  I  do  rest,  my  soul  advance  ; 

Make  my  sleep  a  holy  trance, 

That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 

Awake  into  some  holy  thought, 

And  with  as  active  vigour  run 

My  course  as  doth  the  nimble  sun. 

Sleep  is  a  death  :   O  make  me  try 

By  sleeping  what  it  is  to  die,  , 

And  as  gently  lay  my  head 

On  my  grave,  as  now  my  bed. 

Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 

Awake  again  at  least  with  thee. 

And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie 

Securely,  or  to  wake  or  die. 

These  are  my  drowsy  days  :  in  vain 

I  do  now  wake  to  sleep  again : 

O  come  that  hour  when  I  shall  never 

Sleep  again,  but  wake  for  ever. 

"  This  is  the  dormitive  I  take  to  bed  ward.  I  need  no 
other  laudanum  than  this   to   make  me  sleep  ;  after 


JEREMY  TA  YLOR.  217 

which  I  close  mine  eyes  in  security,  content  to  take 
my  leave  of  the  sun,  and  sleep  unto  the  resurrection." 

Jeremy  Taylor,  born  in  161 3,  was  the  most  poetic 
of  English  prose-writers :  if  he  had  written  verse 
equal  to  his  prose,  he  would  have  had  a  lofty  place 
amongst  poets  as  well  as  amongst  preachers.  Taking 
the  opposite  side  from  Milton,  than  whom  he  was  five 
years  younger,  he  was,  like  him,  conscientious  and 
consistent,  suffering  while  Milton's  cause  prospered, 
and  advanced  to  one  of  the  bishoprics  hated  of 
Milton's  soul  when  the  scales  of  England's  politics 
turned  in  the  other  direction.  Such  men,  however, 
are  divided  only  by  their  intellects.  When  men  say, 
"  I  must  or  I  must  not,  for  it  is  right  or  it  is  not  right," 
then  are  they  in  reality  so  bound  together,  even 
should  they  not  acknowledge  it  themselves,  that  no 
opposing  opinions,  no  conflicting  theories  concerning 
what  is  or  is  not  right,  can  really  part  them.  It  was 
not  wonderful  that  a  mind  like  that  of  Jeremy  Taylor, 
best  fitted  for  worshipping  the  beauty  of  holiness, 
should  mourn  over  the  disrupted  order  of  his  church, 
or  that  a  mind  like  Milton's,  best  fitted  for  the  law 
of  life,  should  demand  that  every  part  of  that  order 
which  had  ceased  to  vibrate  responsive  to  every  throb 
of  the  eternal  heart  of  truth,  should  fall  into  the  ruin 
which  its  death  had  preceded.  The  church  was 
hardly  dealt  with,  but  the  rulers  of  the  church  have 
to  bear  the  blame. 

Here  are  those  I  judge  the  best  of  the  bishop's 

Festival  Hymns,  printed  as  part  of  his  Golden  Grove, 

or  Gwde  to  Devotion.     In  the  first  there   is  a  little 
19 


2 1 8  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 

confusion  of  imagery ;  and  in  others  of  them  will  be 
found  a  little  obscurity.  They  bear  marks  of  the 
careless  impatience  of  rhythm  and  rhyme  of  one  who 
though  ever  bursting  into  a  natural  trill  of  song, 
sometimes  with  more  rhymes  apparently  than  he  in- 
tended, would  yet  rather  let  his  thoughts  pour  them- 
selves out  in  that  unmeasured  chant,  that  "  poetry  in 
solution,"  which  is  the  natural  speech  of  the  prophet- 
orator.  He  is  like  a  full  river  that  must  flow,  which 
rejoices  in  a  flood,  and  rebels  against  the  constraint 
of  mole  or  conduit.  He  exults  in  utterance  itself, 
caring  little  for  the  mode,  which,  however,  the  law  of 
his  indwelling  melody  guides  though  never  compels. 
Charmingly  diffuse  in  his  prose,  his  verse  ever  sounds 
as  if  it  would  overflow  the  banks  of  its  self-imposed 
restraints. 

THE  SECOND  HYMN  FOR  ADVENT  ;  OR,  CHRIST'S 
COMING  TO  JERUSALEM  IN  TRIUMPH. 

Lord,  come  away  ; 

Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 
Thy  road  is  ready ;  and  thy  paths  made  straight 

With  longing  expectation  wait 
The  consecration  of  thy  beauteous  feet. 
Ride  on  triumphantly  :  behold  we  lay 
Our  lusts  and  proud  wills  in  thy  way. 
Hosanna  !  welcome  to  our  hearts  !     Lord,  here 
Thou  hast  a  temple  too,  and  full  as  dear 
As  that  of  Sion,  and  as  full  of  sin  : 
Nothing  but  thieves  and  robbers  dwell  therein. 
Enter,  and  chase  them  forth,  and  cleanse  the  floor ; 
Crucify  them,  that  they  may  never  more 

Profane  that  "holy  place 
Where  thou  hast  chose  to  set  thy  face. 


FROM  THE  GOLDEN  GROVE.  219 


And  then  if  our  stiff  tongues  shall  be 
Mute  in  the  praises  of  thy  deity, 
The  stones  out  of  the  temple-wall 
Shall  cry  aloud  and  call 
Hosanna  !  and  thy  glorious  footsteps  greet. 


HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS-DAY  ;  BEING  A  DIALOGUE 
BETWEEN  THREE  SHEPHERDS. 

1.  Where  is  this  blessed  babe 

That  hath  made 
All  the  world  so  full  of  joy 

And  expectation ; 

That  glorious  boy 

That  crowns  each  nation 
With  a  triumphant  wreath  of  blessedness  ? 

2.  Where  should  he  be  but  in  the  throng, 

And  among 
His  angel  ministers  that  sing 

And  take  wing 
Just  as  may  echo  to  his  voice, 

And  rejoice, 
When  wing  and  tongue  and  all 
May  so  procure  their  happiness  ? 

3.  But  he  hath  other  waiters  now  : 

A  poor  cow 
An  ox  and  mule  stand  and  behold, 

And  wonder 
That  a  stable  should  enfold 

Him  that  can  thunder. 

Chorus.   O  what  a  gracious  God  have  we ! 

How  good  ?     How  great  ?    Even  as  our  misery. 

A  HYMN  FOR  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  come  away  ; 

Put  on  thy  best  array, 

Lest  if  thou  longer  stay, 
Thou  lose  some  minutes  of  so  blest  a  day. 


22o  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Go  run, 
And  bid  good-morrow  to  the  sun  ; 
Welcome  his  safe  return 

To  Capricorn, 
And  that  great  morn 
Wherein  a  God  was  born, 
Whose  story  none  can  tell 
But  he  whose  every  word's  a  miracle. 

To-day  Almightiness  grew  weak  ; 
The  Word  itself  was  mute,  and  could  not  speak. 

That  Jacob's  star  which  made  the  sun 
To  dazzle  if  he  durst  look  on, 
Now  mantled  o'er  in  Bethlehem's  night, 
Borrowed  a  star  to  show  him  light. 

He  that  begirt  each  zone, 

To  whom  both  poles  are  one, 

Who  grasped  the  zodiac  in  his  hand, 

And  made  it  move  or  stand, 

Is  now  by  nature  man, 

By  stature  but  a  span ; 

Eternity  is  now  grown  short ; 

A  king  is  born  without  a  court; 

The  water  thirsts  ;  the  fountain's  dry  ; 

And  life,  being  born,  made  apt  to  die. 

Chorus.     Then  let  our  praises  emulate  and  vie 
With  his  humility ! 
Since  he's  exiled  from  skies 
That  we  might  rise, — 
From  low  estate  of  men 
Let's  sing  him  up  again  ! 
Each  man  wind  up  his  heart 
To  bear  a  part 
In  that  angelic  choir,  and  show 
His  glory  high,  as  he  was  low. 
Let's  sing  towards  men  goodwill  and  charity, 
Peace  upon  earth,  glory  to  God  on  high  ! 

Hallelujah!  Hallelujah! 


JEREMY  TAYLOR:  THE  PRAYER.  221 


THE  PRAYER. 

My  soul  doth  pant  towards  thee, 
My  God,  source  of  eternal  life. 
Flesh  fights  with  me  : 
Oh  end  the  strife, 
And  part  us,  that  in  peace  I  may 
Unclay 
My  wearied  spirit,  and  take 
My  flight  to  thy  eternal  spring, 
Where,  for  his  sake 
Who  is  my  king, 
I  may  wash  all  my  tears  away, 
That  day. 

Thou  conqueror  of  death, 
Glorious  triumpher  o'er  the  grave, 
Whose  holy  breath 
Was  spent  to  save 
Lost  mankind,  make  me  to  be  styled 
Thy  child, 
And  take  me  when  I  die 
And  go  unto  my  dust ;  my  soul 
Above  the  sky 
With  saints  enrol, 
That  in  thy  arms,  for  ever,  I 
May  lie. 

This  last  is  quite  regular,  that  is,  the  second  stanza 
is  arranged  precisely  as  the  first,  though  such  will  not 
appear  to  be  the  case  without  examination  :  the  dis- 
position of  the  lines,  so  various  in  length,  is  confusing 
though  not  confused. 

In  these  poems  will  be  found  that  love  of  home- 
liness which  is  characteristic  of  all  true  poets — and 
orators  too,  in  as  far  as  they  are  poets.  The  meeting 
of  the  homely  and  the  grand  is  heaven.     One  more. 

19* 


222  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  CHARITY. 

Full  of  mercy,  full  of  love, 

Look  upon  us  from  above  ; 

Thou  who  taught'st  the  blind  man's  night 

To  entertain  a  double  light, 

Thine  and  the  day's — and  that  thine  too  : 

The  lame  away  his  crutches  threw ; 

The  parched  crust  of  leprosy 

Returned  unto  its  infancy  ; 

The  dumb  amazed  was  to  hear 

His  own  unchain'd  tongue  strike  his  ear ; 

Thy  powerful  mercy  did  even  chase 

The  devil  from  his  usurped  place, 

Where  thou  thyself  shouldst  dwell,  not  he  : 

Oh  let  thy  love  our  pattern  be ; 

Let  thy  mercy  teach  one  brother 

To  forgive  and  love  another  ; 

That  copying  thy  mercy  here, 

Thy  goodness  may  hereafter  rear 

Our  souls  unto  thy  glory,  when 

Our  dust  shall  cease  to  be  with  men.     Amen, 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

HENRY   MORE   AND    RICHARD    BAXTER. 

Dr.  Henry  More  was  born  in  the  year  1614. 
Chiefly  known  for  his  mystical  philosophy,  which  he 
cultivated  in  retirement  at  Cambridge,  and  taught  not 
only  in  prose,  but  in  an  elaborate,  occasionally  poetic 
poem,  of  somewhere  about  a  thousand  Spenserian 
stanzas,  called  A  Platonic  Song  of  the  Sou/,  he  has  left 
some  smaller  poems,  from  which  I  shall  gather  good 
store  for  my  readers.  Whatever  may  be  thought  of 
his  theories,  they  belong  at  least  to  the  highest  order 
of  philosophy ;  and  it  will  be  seen  from  the  poems  I 
give  that  they  must  have  borne  their  part  in  lifting 
the  soul  of  the  man  towards  a  lofty  spiritual  condition 
of  faith  and  fearlessness.  The  mystical  philosophy 
seems  to  me  safe  enough  in  the  hands  of  a  poet :  with 
others  it  may  degenerate  into  dank  and  dusty  mate- 
rialism. 

RESOLUTION. 

Where's  now  the  objects  of  thy  fears, 
Needless  sighs,  and  fruitless  tears? 
They  be  all  gone  like  idle  dream 
Suggested  from  the  body's  steam. 


224  ENGLAND  *S  ANTIPHON. 


What's  plague  and  prison  ?     Loss  of  friends  ? 
War,  dearth,  and  death  that  all  things  ends  ? 
Mere  bugbears  for  the  childish  mind  ; 
Pure  panic  terrors  of  the  blind. 

Collect  thy  soul  unto  one  sphere 
Of  light,  and  'bove  the  earth  it  rear ; 
Those  wild  scattered  thoughts  that  erst 
Lay  loosely  in  the  world  dispersed, 
Call  in  : — thy  spirit  thus  knit  in  one 
Fair  lucid  orb,  those  fears  be  gone 
Like  vain  impostures  of  the  night, 
That  fly  before  the  morning  bright. 
Then  with  pure  eyes  thou  shalt  behold 
How  the  first  goodness  doth  infold 
All  things  in  loving  tender  arms  ; 
That  deemed  mischiefs  are  no  harms, 
But  sovereign  salves  and  skilful  cures 
Of  greater  woes  the  world  endures  ; 
That  man's  stout  soul  may  win  a  state 
Far  raised  above  the  reach  of  fate. 

Then  wilt  thou  say,  God  rules  the  world. 
Though  mountain  over  mountain  hurled 
Be  pitched  amid  the  foaming  main 
Which  busy  winds  to  wrath  constrain  ; 

*  *  *  * 

Though  pitchy  blasts  from  hell  up-born 

Stop  the  outgoings  of  the  morn, 

And  Nature  play  her  fiery  games 

In  this  forced  night,  with  fulgurant  flames  : 

*  *  *  » 

All  this  confusion  cannot  move 

The  purged  mind,  freed  from  the  love 

Of  commerce  with  her  body  dear, 

Cell  of  sad  thoughts,  sole  spring  of  fear. 

Whate'er  I  feel  or  hear  or  see 
Threats  but  these  parts  that  mortal  be 
Nought  can  the  honest  heart  dismay 
Unless  the  love  of  living  clay, 


HENR  Y  MORE  >S  RESOL  UTION.  225 


And  long  acquaintance  with  the  light 
Of  this  outworld,  and  what  to  sight 
Those  two  officious  beams1  discover 
Of  forms  that  round  about  us  hover. 

Power,  wisdom,  goodness,  sure  did  frame 
This  universe,  and  still  guide  the  same. 
But  thoughts  from  passions  sprung,  deceivt 
Vain  mortals.     No  man  can  contrive 
A  better  course  than  what's  been  run 
Since  the  first  circuit  of  the  sun. 

He  that  beholds  all  from  on  high 
Knows  better  what  to  do  than  I. 
I'm  not  mine  own  :  should  I  repine 
If  he  dispose  of  what's  not  mine  ? 
Purge  but  thy  soul  of  blind  self-will, 
Thou  straight  shalt  see  God  doth  no  ill. 
The  world  he  fills  with  the  bright  rays 
Of  his  free  goodness.     He  displays 
Himself  throughout.     Like  common  air 
That  spirit  of  life  through  all  doth  fare, 
Sucked  in  by  them  as  vital  breath 
That  willingly  embrace  not  death. 
But  those  that  with  that  living  law 
Be  unacquainted,  cares  do  gnaw  ; 
Mistrust  of  God's  good  providence 
Doth  daily  vex  their  wearied  sense. 

Now  place  me  on  the  Libyan  soil, 
With  scorching  sun  and  sands  to  toil, 
Far  from  the  view  of  spring  or  tree, 
Where  neither  man  nor  house  I  see  ; 
*  *  *  * 

Commit  me  at  my  next  remove 

To  icy  Hyperborean    ove  j 

Confine  me  to  the  arctic  pole, 

Where  the  numb'd  heavens  do  slowly  roll ; 


1  It  is  the  light  of  the  soul  going  out  from  the  eyes,  as  certainly  as 
the  light  of  the  world  coming  in  at  the  eyes  that  makes  things  seen. 

S.L.  IV.  Q 


226  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON 

To  lands  where  cold  raw  heavy  mist 

Sol's  kindly  warmth  and  light  resists  ; 

Where  lowering  clouds  full  fraught  with  snow 

Do  sternly  scowl ;  where  winds  do  blow 

With  bitter  blasts,  and  pierce  the  skin, 

Forcing  the  vital  spirits  in, 

Which  leave  the  body  thus  ill  bested, 

In  this  chill  plight  at  least  half-dead  ; 

Yet  by  an  antiperistasis  x 

My  inward  heat  more  kindled  is  ; 

And  while  this  flesh  her  breath  expires, 

My  spirit  shall  suck  celestial  fires 

By  deep-fetched  sighs  and  pure  devotion. 

Thus  waxen  hot  with  holy  motion, 

At  once  I'll  break  forth  in  a  flame  ; 

Above  this  world  and  worthless  fame 

I'll  take  my  flight,  careless  that  men 

Know  not  how,  where  I  die,  or  when. 

Yea,  though  the  soul  should  mortal  prove, 

So  be  God's  life  but  in  me  move 

To  my  last  breath — I'm  satisfied 

A  lonesome  mortal  God  to  have  died. 

This  last  paragraph  is  magnificent  as  any  single 
passage  I  know  in  literature. 

Is  it  lawful,  after  reading  this,  to  wonder  whethet 
Henry  More,  the  retired,  and  so  far  untried,  student 
of  Cambridge,  would  have  been  able  thus  to  meet 
the  alternations  of  suffering  which  he  imagines  ?  It 
is  one  thing  to  see  reasonableness,  another  to  be 
reasonable  when  objects  have  become  circumstances. 
Would  he,  then,  by  spiritual  might,  have  risen  indeed 
above  bodily  torture  ?  It  is  possible  for  a  man  to 
arrive  at  this  perfection ;  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  a  man  should  some  day  or  other  reach  it ;  and 

1  The  action  by  which  a  body  attacked  collects  force  by  opposite- 


DEVOTION.  227 


I  think  the  wise  doctor  would  have  proved  the 
truth  of  his  principles.  But  there  are  many  who 
would  gladly  part  with  their  whole  bodies  rather  than 
offend,  and  could  not  yet  so  rise  above  the  invasions 
of  the  senses.  Here,  as  in  less  important  things,  our 
business  is  not  to  speculate  what  we  would  do  in 
other  circumstances,  but  to  perform  the  duty  of  the 
moment,  the  one  true  preparation  for  the  duty  to 
come.  Possibly,  however,  the  right  development  of 
our  human  relations  in  the  world  may  be  a  more 
difficult  and  more  important  task  still  than  this  con- 
dition of  divine  alienation.  To  find  God  in  others 
is  better  than  to  grow  solely  in  the  discovery  of  him 
in  ourselves,  if  indeed  the  latter  were  possible. 

DEVOTION. 

Good  God,  when  thou  thy  inward  grace  dost  shower 
Into  my  breast, 
How  full  of  light  and  lively  power 
Is  then  my  soul ! 
How  am  I  blest ! 
How  can  I  then  all  difficulties  devour  ! 
Thy  might, 
Thy  spright, 
With  ease  my  cumbrous  enemy  control. 

If  thou  once  turn  away  thy  face  and  hide 
Thy  cheerful  look, 
My  feeble  flesh  may  not  abide 

That  dreadful  stound  ;  hour. 

I  cannot  brook 
Thy  absence.     My  heart,  with  care  and  grief  then  gride, 

1  Cut  roughly  through. 

Q  2 


225  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Doth  fail, 
Doth  quail ; 
My  life  steals  from  me  at  that  hidden  woaud. 

My  fancy's  then  a  burden  to  my  mind  ; 
Mine  anxious  thought 
Betrays  my  reason,  makes  me  blind  ; 

Near  dangers  drad  dreaded. 

Make  me  distraught ; 
Surprised  with  fear  my  senses  all  I  find  : 
In  hell 
I  dwell, 
Oppressed  with  horror,  pain,  and  sorrow  sad. 

My  former  resolutions  all  are  fled — 
Slipped  over  my  tongue ; 
My  faith,  my  hope,  and  joy  are  dead. 
Assist  my  heart, 
Rather  than  my  song, 
My  God,  my  Saviour  !     When  I'm  ill-bested, 
Stand  by, 
And  I 
Shall  bear  with  courage  undeserved  smart. 

THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  DEVOTION. 
Sing  aloud !— His  praise  rehearse 
Who  hath  made  the  universe. 
He  the  boundless  heavens  has  spread, 
All  the  vital  orbs  has  kned,  kneaded. 

He  that  on  Olympus  high 
Tends  his  flocks  with  watchful  eye, 

And  this  eye  has  multiplied       suns,  as  centres  of  systems. 
Midst  each  flock  for  to  reside. 
Thus,  as  round  about  they  stray, 
Toucheth 1  each  with  outstretched  ray  ; 
Nimble  they  hold  on  their  way, 
Shaping  out  their  night  and  day. 
Summer,  winter,  autumn,  spring, 
Their  inclined  axes  bring. 
Never  slack  they  ;  none  respires, 
Dancing  round  their  central  fires. 

1  Intransitively  used.     They  touch  each  other. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 'S  DE  VO  TION.  229 


Jn  due  order  as  they  move, 
Echoes  sweet  be  gently  drove 
Thorough  heaven's  vast  hollowness, 
Which  unto  all  corners  press : 
Music  that  the  heart  of  Jove 
Moves  to  joy  and  sportful  love  ; 
Fills  the  listening  sailers'  ears 
Riding  on  the  wandering  spheres : 
Neither  speech  nor  language  is 
Where  their  voice  is  not  transmiss. 

God  is  good,  is  wise,  is  strong, 

Witness  all  the  creature  throng, 

Is  confessed  by  every  tongue  ; 

All  things  back  from  whence  they  sprung,    go  back  •  a  verb. 

As  the  thankful  rivers  pay 

What  they  borrowed  of  the  sea. 

Now  myself  I  do  resign  : 
Take  me  whole:  I  all  am  thine. 
Save  me,  God,  from  self-desire — 
Death's  pit,  dark  hell's  raging  fire — 1 
Envy,  hatred,  vengeance,  ire  ; 
Let  not  lust  my  soul  bemire. 

Quit  from  these,  thy  praise  I'll  sing, 

Loudly  sweep  the  trembling  string. 

Bear  a  part,  O  Wisdom's  sons, 

Freed  from  vain  religions  ! 

Lo !  from  far  I  you  salute, 

Sweetly  warbling  on  my  lute — 

India,  Egypt,  Araby, 

Asia,  Greece,  and  Tartary, 

Carmel-tracts,  and  Lebanon, 

With  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon, 

From  whence  muddy  Nile  doth  run, 

Or  wherever  else  you  won :  dwell. 

Breathing  in  one  vital  air, 

One  we  are  though  distant  far. 


1  Self-desire,  which  is  death's  pit,  &c 
20 


230  ENGLAND  'S  ANTIPHON, 


Rise  at  once ; — let's  sacrifice  : 
Odours  sweet  perfume  the  skies ; 
See  how  heavenly  lightning  fires 
Hearts  inflamed  with  high  aspires  ! 
All  the  substance  of  our  souls 
Up  in  clouds  of  incense  rolls. 
Leave  we  nothing  to  ourselves 
Save  a  voice — what  need  we  else  ! 
Or  an  hand  to  wear  and  tire 
On  the  thankful  lute  or  lyre  ! 

Sing  aloud  ! — His  praise  rehearse 
Who  hath  made  the  universe. 

In  this  Philosopher 's  Devotion  he  has  clearly  imitated 
one  of  those  psalms  of  George  Sandys  which  I  have 
given. 

CHARITY  AND  HUMILITY. 

Far  have  I  clambered  in  my  mind, 
But  nought  so  great  as  love  I  find  : 
Deep-searching  wit,  mount-moving  might, 
Are  nought  compared  to  that  good  sprite. 
Life  of  delight  and  soul  of  bliss  ! 
Sure  source  of  lasting  happiness  ! 
Higher  than  heaven !  lower  than  hell ! 
What  is  thy  tent  ?     Where  may'st  thou  dwell  ? 

"  My  mansion  hight  Humility,  is  named. 

Heaven's  vastest  capability. 

The  further  it  doth  downward  tend, 

The  higher  up  it  doth  ascend  ; 

If  it  go  down  to  utmost  nought, 

It  shall  return  with  that  it  sought." 

Lord,  stretch  thy  tent  in  my  strait  breast ; 

Enlarge  it  downward,  that  sure  rest 

May  there  be  pight  for  that  pure  fire  pitched. 

Wherewith  thou  wontest  to  inspire 

All  self-dead  souls  :  my  life  is  gone ; 

Sad  solitude's  my  irksome  won  ;  dwelling. 


HUMILITY  THE  HOUSE  OF  CHARITY.       231 

Cut  off  from  men  and  all  this  world, 

In  Lethe's  lonesome  ditch  I'm  hurled  ; 

Nor  might  nor  sight  doth  ought  me  move, 

Nor  do  I  care  to  be  above. 

O  feeble  rays  of  mental  light, 

That  best  be  seen  in  this  dark  night, 

What  are  you?     What  is  any  strength 

If  it  be  not  laid  in  one  length 

With  pride  or  love  ?     I  nought  desire 

But  a  new  life,  or  quite  to  expire. 

Could  I  demolish  with  mine  eye 

Strong  towers,  stop  the  fleet  stars  in  sky, 

Bring  down  to  earth  the  pale-faced  moon, 

Or  turn  black  midnight  to  bright  noon  ; 

Though  all  things  were  put  in  my  hand — 

As  parched,  as  dry  as  the  Libyan  sand 

Would  be  my  life,  if  charity 

Were  wanting.     But  humility 

Is  more  than  my  poor  soul  durst  crave 

That  lies  entombed  in  lowly  grave  ; 

But  if  'twere  lawful  up  to  send 

My  voice  to  heaven,  this  should  it  rend  : 

"  Lord,  thrust  me  deeper  into  dust, 

That  thou  may'st  raise  me  with  the  just." 

There  are  strange  things  and  worth  pondering  in 
all  these.  An  occasional  classical  allusion  seems  to 
us  quite  out  of  place,  but  such  things  we  must  pass. 
The  poems  are  quite  different  from  any  we  have  had 
before.  There  has  been  only  a  few  of  such  writers  in 
our  nation,  but  I  suspect  those  have  had  a  good  deal 
more  influence  upon  the  religious  life  of  it  than  many 
thinkers  suppose.  They  are  in  closest  sympathy  with 
the  deeper  forms  of  truth  employed  by  St.  Paul  and 
St.  John.  This  last  poem,  concerning  humility  as  the 
house  in  which  charity  dwells,  is  very  truth.  A  re- 
pentant sinner  feels  that  he  is  making  himself  little 
when  he  prays  to   be   made  humble :  the  Christian 


232  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


philosopher  sees  such  a  glory  and  spiritual  wealth 
in  humility  that  it  appears  to  him  almost  too  much 
to  pray  for. 

The  very  essence  of  these  mystical  writers  seems 
to  me  to  be  poetry.  They  use  the  largest  figures  for 
the  largest  spiritual  ideas — light  for  good,  darkness  for 
evil.  Such  symbols  are  the  true  bodies  of  the  true 
ideas.  For  this  service  mainly  what  we  term  nature 
was  called  into  being,  namely,  to  furnish  forms  for 
truths,  for  without  form  truth  cannot  be  uttered. 
Having  found  their  symbols,  these  writers  next  pro- 
ceed to  use  them  logically  ;  and  here  begins  the  pecu- 
liar danger.  When  the  logic  leaves  the  poetry  behind, 
it  grows  first  presumptuous,  then  hard,  then  narrow 
and  untrue  to  the  original  breadth  of  the  symbol ;  the 
glory  of  the  symbol  vanishes  ;  and  the  final  result 
is  a  worship  of  the  symbol,  which  has  withered  into 
an  apple  of  Sodom.  Witness  some  of  the  writings 
of  the  European  master  of  the  order — Swedenborg : 
the  highest  of  them  are  rich  in  truth ;  the  lowest 
are  poverty-stricken  indeed. 

In  1615  was  born  Richard  Baxter,  one  of  the 
purest  and  wisest  and  devoutest  of  men — and  no 
mean  poet  either.  If  ever  a  man  sought  between  con- 
tending parties  to  do  his  duty,  siding  with  each  as 
each  appeared  right,  opposing  each  as  each  appeared 
wrong,  surely  that  man  was  Baxter.  Hence  he  fared 
as  all  men  too  wise  to  be  partisans  must  fare — 
he  pleased  neither  Royalists  nor  Puritans.  Dull  of 
heart  and  sadly  unlike  a  mother  was  the  Church 
when,  by  the  Act  of  Uniformity  of  Charles  II.,  she 


BAXTER 'S  RESOL  UTION.  233 

drove  from  her  bosom  such  a  son,  with  his  two 
thousand  brethren  of  the  clergy ! 

He  has  left  us  a  good  deal  of  verse — too  much, 
perhaps,  if  we  consider  the  length  of  the  poems  and 
the  value  of  condensation.  There  is  in  many  of 
them  a  delightful  fervour  of  the  simplest  love  to  God, 
uttered  with  a  plain  half  poetic,  half  logical  strength, 
from  which  sometimes  the  poetry  breaks  out  clear  and 
fine.  Much  that  he  writes  is  of  death,  from  the  dread 
of  which  he  evidently  suffered — a  good  thing  when  it 
drives  a  man  to  renew  his  confidence  in  his  Saviour's 
presence.  It  has  with  him  a  very  different  origin  from 
the  vulgar  fancy  that  to  talk  about  death  is  religious. 
It  was  refuge  from  the  fear  of  death  he  sought,  and 
that  is  the  part  of  every  man  who  would  not  be  a 
slave.  The  door  of  death  of  which  he  so  often  speaks 
is  to  him  a  door  out  of  the  fear  of  death. 

The  poem  from  which  the  following  excerpt  is 
made  was  evidently  written  in  view  of  some  imminent 
suffering  for  conscience-sake,  probably  when  the  Act 
of  Uniformity  was  passed :  twenty  years  after,  he 
was  imprisoned  at  the  age  of  sixty-seven,  and  lay 
nearly  a  year  and  a  half. — I  omit  many  verses. 

THE  RESOLUTION. 

It's  no  great  matter  what  men  deem, 

Whether  they  count  me  good  or  bad  : 
In  their  applause  and  best  esteem, 

There's  no  contentment  to  be  had. 
Thy  steps,  Lord,  in  this  dirt  I  see  ; 

And  lest  my  soul  from  God  should  stray, 
I'll  bear  my  cross  and  follow  thee  : 

Let  others  choose  the  fairer  way. 
20* 


234  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

My  face  is  meeter  for  the  spit ; 

I  am  more  suitable  to  shame, 
And  to  the  taunts  of  scornful  wit  : 

It's  no  great  matter  for  my  name. 

My  Lord  hath  taught  me  how  to  want 

A  place  wherein  to  put  my  head : 
While  he  is  mine,  I'll  be  content 

To  beg  or  lack  my  daily  bread. 
Must  I  forsake  the  soil  and  air 

Where  first  I  drew  my  vital  breath  ? 
That  way  may  be  as  near  and  fair : 

Thence  I  may  come  to  thee  by  death. 
All  countries  are  my  Father's  lands ; 

Thy  sun,  thy  love,  doth  shine  on  all ; 
We  may  in  all  lift  up  pure  hands, 

And  with  acceptance  on  thee  call. 

What  if  in  prison  I  must  dwell  ? 

May  I  not  there  converse  with  thee? 
Save  me  from  sin,  thy  wrath,  and  hell 

Call  me  thy  child,  and  I  am  free. 
No  walls  or  bars  can  keep  thee  out ; 

None  can  confine  a  holy  soul ; 
The  streets  of  heaven  it  walks  about ; 

None  can  its  liberty  control. 
This  flesh  hath  drawn  my  soul  to  sin  : 

If  it  must  smart,  thy  will  be  done  ! 
O  fill  me  with  thy  joys  within, 

And  then  I'll  let  it  grieve  alone. 

Frail,  sinful  flesh  is  loath  to  die ; 

Sense  to  the  unseen  world  is  strange ; 
The  doubting  soul  dreads  the  Most  High, 

And  trembleth  at  so  great  a  change. 
O  let  me  not  be  strange  at  home, 

Strange  to  the  sun  and  life  of  souls, 
Choosing  this  low  and  darkened  room, 

Familiar  with  worms  and  moles ! 
Am  I  the  first  that  go  this  way  ? 

How  many  saints  are  gone  before  ! 
How  many  enter  every  day 

Into  thy  kingdom  by  this  door  I 


THE  RETURN.  235 


Christ  was  once  dead,  and  in  a  grave  ; 

Yet  conquered  death,  and  rose  again ; 
And  by  this  method  he  will  save 

His  servants  that  with  him  shall  reign. 
The  strangeness  will  be  quickly  over, 

When  once  the  heaven -born  soul  is  there : 
One  sight  of  God  will  it  recover 

From  all  this  backwardness  and  fear. 
To  us,  Christ's  lowest  parts,  his  feet, 

Union  and  faith  must  yet  suffice 
To  guide  and  comfort  us  :  it's  meet 

We  trust  our  head  who  hath  our  eves. 


We  see  here  that  faith  in  the  Lord  leads  Richard 
Baxter  to  the  same  conclusions  immediately  to  which 
his  faithful  philosophy  led  Henry  More. 

There  is  much  in  Baxter's  poems  that  I  would 
gladly  quote,  but  must  leave  with  regret.  Here  is  a 
curious,  skilful,  and,  in  a  homely  way,  poetic  ballad,, 
embodying  a  good  parable.  I  give  only  a  few  of  the 
stanzas. 

THE  RETURN. 

Who  was  it  that  I  left  behind 

When  I  went  last  from  home, 
That  now  I  all  disordered  find 

When  to  myself  I  come  ? 

I  left  it  light,  but  now  all's  dark, 

And  I  am  fain  to  grope  : 
Were  it  not  for  one  little  spark 

1  should  be  out  of  hope. 

My  Gospel-book  I  open  left, 

Where  I  the  promise  saw  ; 
But  now  I  doubt  it's  lost  by  theft  : 

I  find  none  but  the  Law. 


236  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 


The  stormy  rain  an  entrance  hath 

Through  the  uncovered  top  : 
How  should  I  rest  when  showers  of  wrath 

Upon  my  conscience  drop  ? 

I  locked  my  jewel  in  my  chest ; 

I'll  search  lest  that  be  gone  : — 
If  this  one  guest  had  quit  my  breast, 

I  had  been  quite  undone. 

My  treacherous  Flesh  had  played  its  part, 

And  opened  Sin  the  door ; 
And  they  have  spoiled  and  robbed  my  heart, 

And  left  it  sad  and  poor. 

Yet  have  I  one  great  trusty  friend 

That  will  procure  my  peace, 
And  all  this  loss  and  ruin  mend, 

And  purchase  my  release. 

The  bellows  I'll  yet  take  in  hand, 

Till  this  small  spark  shall  flame  : 
Love  shall  my  heart  and  tongue  command 

To  praise  God's  holy  name. 

I'll  mend  the  roof;  I'll  watch  the  door, 

And  better  keep  the  key  ; 
I'll  trust  my  treacherous  flesh  no  more, 

But  force  it  to  obey. 

What  have  I  said  ?     That  I'll  do  this 

That  am  so  false  and  weak, 
And  have  so  often  done  amiss, 

And  did  my  covenants  break  ? 

I  mean,  Lord— all  this  shall  be  done 

If  thou  my  heart  wilt  raise  ; 
And  as  the  work  must  be  thine  own, 

So  also  shall  the  praise. 

The  allegory  is  so  good  that  one  is  absolutely  sorry 
when  it  breaks  down,  and  the  poem  says  in  plain 
words  that  which  is  the  subject  of  the  figures,  bring- 


BROKEN  ALLEGOR  Y.  237 

ing  truths  unmasked  into  the  midst  of  the  maskers 
who  represent  truths — thus  interrupting  the  pleasure 
of  the  artistic  sense  in  the  transparent  illusion. 

The  command  of  metrical  form  in  Baxter  is  some- 
what remarkable.  He  has  not  much  melody,  but  he 
keeps  good  time  in  a  variety  of  measures. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


CRASHAW  AND   MARVELL. 


I  COME  now  to  one  of  the  loveliest  of  our  angel- 
birds,  Richard  Crashaw.  Indeed  he  was  like  a  bird 
in  more  senses  than  one  ;  for  he  belongs  to  that  class 
of  men  who  seem  hardly  ever  to  get  foot-hold  of 
this  world,  but  are  ever  floating  in  the  upper  air  of  it. 

What  I  said  of  a  peculiar  ^Eolian  word-music 
in  William  Drummond  applies  with  equal  truth  to 
Crashaw  ;  while  of  our  own  poets,  somehow  or  other, 
he  reminds  me  of  Shelley,  in  the  silvery  shine  and 
bell-like  melody  both  of  his  verse  and  his  imagery ; 
and  in  one  of  his  poems,  Musics  Duel,  the  fineness 
of  his  phrase  reminds  me  of  Keats.  But  I  must  not 
forget  that  it  is  only  with  his  sacred,  his  best  poems 
too,  that  I  am  now  concerned. 

The  date  of  his  birth  is  not  known  with  certainty, 
but  it  is  judged  about  1616,  the  year  of  Shakspere's 
death.  He  was  the  son  of  a  Protestant  clergyman 
zealous  even  to  controversy.  By  a  not  unnatural 
reaction  Crashaw,  by  that  time,  it  is  said,  a  popular 
preacher,  when  expelled  from  Oxford  in  1644  by  the 
Puritan   Parliament   because   of  his   refusal   to   sign 


THE  SENTIMENTAL.  239 

their  Covenant,  became  a  Roman  Catholic.  He  died 
about  the  age  of  thirty-four,  a  canon  of  the  Church  of 
Loretto.  There  is  much  in  his  verses  of  that  sentimen- 
talism  which,  I  have  already  said  in  speaking  of  South- 
well, is  rife  in  modern  Catholic  poetry.  I  will  give 
from  Crashaw  a  specimen  of  the  kind  of  it.  Avoid- 
ing a  more  sacred  object,  one  stanza  from  a  poem 
of  thirty-one,  most  musical,  and  full  of  lovely  speech 
concerning  the  tears  of  Mary  Magdalen,  will  suit  my 
purpose. 

Hail,  sister  springs, 
Parents  of  silver-footed  rills  ! 

Ever-bubbling  things  ! 
Thawing  crystal !     Snowy  hills, 
Still  spending,  never  spent  ! — I  mean 
Thy  fair  eyes,  sweet  Magdalene  ! 

The  poem  is  called  The  Weeper,  and  is  radiant  of 
delicate  fancy.  But  surely  such  tones  are  not  worthy 
of  flitting  moth-like  about  the  holy  sorrow  of  a  re- 
pentant woman !  Fantastically  beautiful,  they  but 
play  with  her  grief.  Sorrow  herself  would  put  her 
shoes  off  her  feet  in  approaching  the  weeping  Mag- 
dalene. They  make  much  of  her  indeed,  but  they 
show  her  little  reverence.  There  is  in  them,  notwith- 
standing their  fervour  of  amorous  words,  a  coldness 
like  that  which  dwells  in  the  ghostly  beauty  of  icicles 
shining  in  the  moon. 

But  I  almost  reproach  myself  for  introducing 
Crashaw  thus.  I  had  to  point  out  the  fact,  and 
now  having  done  with  it,  I  could  heartily  wish  I  had 
room  to  expatiate  on  his  loveliness  even  in  such 
poems  as  The  Weeper. 


240  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


His  Divine  Epigrams  are  not  the  most  beautiful, 
but  they  are  to  me  the  most  valuable  of  his  verses, 
inasmuch  as  they  make  us  feel  afresh  the  truth  which 
he  sets  forth  anew.  In  them  some  of  the  facts  of  our 
Lord's  life  and  teaching  look  out  upon  us  as  from 
clear  windows  of  the  past.  As  epigrams,  too,  they 
are  excellent — pointed  as  a  lance. 

Upon  the  Sepulchre  of  our  Lord. 

Here,  where  our  Lord  once  laid  his  head, 
Now  the  grave  lies  buried. 

The  Widow's  Mites. 

Two  mites,  two  drops,  yet  all  her  house  and  land, 
Fall  from  a  steady  heart,  though  trembling  hand  ; 
The  other's  wanton  wealth  foams  high  and  brave  : 
The  other  cast  away — she  only  gave. 

On  the  Prodigal. 

Tell  me,  bright  boy  !  tell  me,  my  golden  lad  ! 
Whither  away  so  frolic  ?    Why  so  glad  ? 

What !  all  thy  wealth  in  council  ?  all  thy  state  ? 
Are  husks  so  dear  ?     Troth,  'tis  a  mighty  rate  ! 

I  value  the  following  as  a  lovely  parable.  Mary 
is  not  contented :  to  see  the  place  is  little  comfort. 
The  church  itself,  with  all  its  memories  of  the  Lord, 
the  gospel-story,  and  all  theory  about  him,  is  but  his 
tomb  until  we  find  himself. 

Come,  see  the  place  where  the  Lord  lay. 

Show  me  himself,  himself,  bright  sir !    Oh  show 
Which  way  my  poor  tears  to  himself  may  go. 


THE  PRIEST  AND  THE  MAN  241 

Were  it  enough  to  show  the  place,  and  say, 
"  Look,  Mary  ;  here  see  where  thy  Lord  once  lay  ; " 
Then  could  I  show  these  arms  of  mine,  and  say, 
"  Look,  Mary;  here  see  where  thy  Lord  once  lay." 

From  one  of  eight  lines,  on  the  Mother  Mary 
looking  on  her  child  in  her  lap,  I  take  the  last  two, 
complete  in  themselves,  and  I  think  best  alone. 

This  new  guest  to  her  eyes  new  laws  hath  given  : 
'Twas  once  look  up,  'tis  now  look  down  to  heaven. 

And  here  is  perhaps  his  best. 

Two  went  up  into  the  Temple  to  pray. 
Two  went  to  pray  ?     Oh  rather  say, 
One  went  to  brag,  the  other  to  pray. 

One  stands  up  close,  and  tieads  on  high, 
Where  the  other  dares  not  lend  his  eye. 

One  nearer  to  God's  altar  trod  ; 
The  other  to  the  altar's  God. 

This  appears  to  me  perfect.  Here  is  the  true 
relation  between  the  forms  and  the  end  of  religion. 
The  priesthood,  the  altar  and  all  its  ceremonies,  must 
vanish  from  between  the  sinner  and  his  God.  When 
the  priest  forgets  his  mediation  of  a  servant,  his  duty 
of  a  door-keeper  to  the  temple  of  truth,  and  takes 
upon  him  the  office  of  an  intercessor,  he  stands 
between  man  and  God,  and  is  a  Satan,  an  adversary. 
Artistically  considered,  the  poem  could  hardly  be 
improved. 

Here  is  another  containing  a  similar  lesson. 

/  am  not  worthy  that  thou  shouldst  come  under  my  roof. 

Thy  God  was  making  haste  into  thy  roof; 
Thy  humble  faith  and  fear  keeps  him  aloof. 
He'll  be  thy  guest :  because  he  may  not  be, 
He'll  come—  into  thy  house  ?     No  ;  into  thee. 
21  R 


242  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

The  following  is  a  world-wide  intercession  for  them 
that  know  not  what  they  do.  Of  those  that  reject  the 
truth,  who  can  be  said  ever  to  have  truly  seen  it  ?  A 
man  must  be  good  to  see  truth.  It  is  a  thought 
suggested  by  our  Lord's  words,  not  an  irreverent 
opposition  to  the  truth  of  them. 

But  now  they  have  seen  and  hated. 

Seen  ?  and  yet  hated  thee?     They  did  not  see — 
They  saw  thee  not,  that  saw  and  hated  thee  ! 
No,  no  ;  they  saw  thee  not,  O  Life  !  O  Love  ! 
Who  saw  aught  in  thee  that  their  hate  could  move. 

We  must  not  be  too  ready  to  quarrel  with  every 
oddity :  an  oddity  will  sometimes  just  give  the  start 
to  an  outbreak  of  song.  The  strangeness  of  the 
following  hymn  rises  almost  into  grandeur. 

EASTER  DAY. 

Rise,  heir  of  fresh  eternity, 
From  thy  virgin-tomb  ; 
Rise,  mighty  man  of  wonders,  and  thy  world  with  thee  ; 
Thy  tomb,  the  universal  East — 
Nature's  new  womb ; 
Thy  tomb — fair  Immortality's  perfumed  nest. 

Of  all  the  glories1  make  noon  gay 
This  is  the  morn  ; 
This  rock  buds  forth  the  fountain  of  the  streams  of  day; 
In  joy's  white  annals  lives  this  hour, 
When  life  was  born, 
No  cloud-scowl  on  his  radiant  lids,  no  tempest-lower. 


1   Which  understood. 


CRASHA  W—HYMN  OF  THE  NA  TIVITY.       243 

Life,  by  this  light's  nativity, 
All  creatures  have  ; 
Death  only  by  this  day's  just  doom  is  forced  to  die. 
Nor  is  death  forced  ;  for,  may  he  lie 
Throned  in  thy  grave, 
Death  will  on  this  condition  be  content  to  die. 

When  we  come,  in  the  writings  of  one  who  has 
revealed  masterdom,  upon  any  passage  that  seems 
commonplace,  or  any  figure  that  suggests  nothing 
true,  the  part  of  wisdom  is  to  brood  over  that  point ; 
for  the  piobability  is  that  the  barrenness  lies  in  us, 
two  factors  being  necessary  for  the  result  of  sight — 
the  thing  to  be  seen  and  the  eye  to  see  it.  No  doubt 
the  expression  may  be  inadequate,  but  if  we  can 
compensate  the  deficiency  by  adding  more  vision,  so 
much  the  better  for  us. 

In  the  second  stanza  there  is  a  strange  combination 
of  images  :  the  rock  buds  ;  and  buds  a  fountain  ;  the 
fountain  is  light.  But  the  images  are  so  much  one 
at  the  root,  that  they  slide  gracefully  into  each  other, 
and  there  is  no  confusion  or  incongruity :  the  result  is 
an  inclined  plane  of  development. 

I  now  come  to  the  most  musical  and  most  graceful, 
therefore  most  lyrical,  of  his  poems.  I  have  left  out 
just  three  stanzas,  because  of  the  sentimentalism  of 
which  I  have  spoken  :  I  would  have  left  out  more  if 
I  could  have  done  so  without  spoiling  the  symmetry 
of  the  poem.  My  reader  must  be  friendly  enough  to 
one  who  is  so  friendly  to  him,  to  let  his  peculiarities 
pass  unquestioned — amongst  the  rest  his  conceits,  as 
well  as  the  trifling  discord  that  the  shepherds  should 
be   called,   after   the   classical   fashion — ill  agreeing, 

R  2 


244 


ENGLAND'S  AN  TIP  HON. 


from   its  associations,  with   Christian    song — Tityrus 
and  Thyrsis. 

A  HYMN  OF  THE  NATIVITY  SUNG  BY  THE  SHEPHERDS. 

Chorus.      Come,  we  shepherds,  whose  blest  sight 
Hath  met  love's  noon  in  nature's  night ; 
Come,  lift  we  up  our  loftier  song, 
And  wake  the  sun  that  lies  too  long. 

To  all  our  world  of  well -stolen  i  joy 

He  slept,  and  dreamed  of  no  such  thing, 

While  we  found  out  heaven's  fairer  eye, 
And  kissed  the  cradle  of  our  king  : 

Tell  him  he  rises  now  too  late 

To  show  us  aught  worth  looking  at. 

Tell  him  we  now  can  show  him  more 
Than  he  e'er  showed  to  mortal  sight — 

Than  he  himself  e'er  saw  before, 

Which  to  be  seen  needs  not  his  light : 

Tell  him,  Tityrus,  where  thou  hast  been  ; 

Tell  him,  Thyrsis,  what  thou  hast  seen. 

Tityrus.       Gloomy  night  embraced  the  place 
Where  the  noble  infant  lay  : 
The  babe  looked  up  and  showed  his  face  : 

In  spite  of  darkness  it  was  day. 
It  was  thy  day,  sweet,  and  did  rise 
Not  from  the  east,  but  from  thy  eyes. 

Chorus.     It  was  thy  day,  sweet,  &c 

Thyrsis.     Winter  chid  aloud,  and  sent 

The  angry  north  to  wage  his  wars  : 
The  north  forgot  his  fierce  intent, 

And  left  perfumes  instead  of  scars. 
By  those  sweet  eyes'  persuasive  powers, 
Where  he  meant  frosts,  he  scattered  flowers. 
Chorus.     By  those  sweet  eyes',  &c. 


1  How  unpleasant  conceit  can  become.   The  joy  of  seeing  the  Saviour 
was  stolen  because  they  gained  it  in  the  absence  of  the  sun  ! 


HYMN  OF  THE  NATIVITY.  245 


Both,  We  saw  thee  in  thy  balmy  nest, 

Young  dawn  of  our  eternal  day ; 
We  saw  thine  eyes  break  from  the  east, 

And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away. 
We  saw  thee,  and  we  blessed  the  sight ; 
We  saw  thee  by  thine  own  sweet  light. 
Chorus.     We  saw  thee,  &c. 

Tityrus.     "  Poor  world,"  said  I,  "  what  wilt  thou  do 
To  entertain  this  starry  stranger  ? 
Is  this  the  best  thou  canst  bestow — 

A  cold  and  not  too  cleanly  manger  ? 
Contend,  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth, 
To  fit  a  bed  for  this  huge  birth." 

Chorus.     Contend,  the  powers,  &c 

Thyrsis.     "  Proud  world,"  said  I,  "  cease  your  contest, 
And  let  the  mighty  babe  alone  : 
The  phoenix  builds  the  phoenix'  nest — 

Love's  architecture  is  his  own. 
The  babe,  whose  birth  embraves  this  mom, 
Made  his  own  bed  ere  he  was  born." 

Chorus.     The  babe,  whose  birth,  &c. 

Tityrus,     I  saw  the  curl'd  drops,  soft  and  slow, 
Come  hovering  o'er  the  place's  head, 
Offering  their  whitest  sheets  of  snow 

To  furnish  the  fair  infant's  bed : 
"Forbear,"  said  I  ;  "be  not  too  bold : 
Your  fleece  is  white,  but  'tis  too  cold." 
Chorus.     "Forbear,"  said  I,  &c. 

Thyrsis.     I  saw  the  obsequious  seraphim 

Their  rosy  fleece  of  fire  bestow  ; 
For  well  they  now  can  spare  their  wings, 

Since  heaven  itself  lies  here  below. 
"  Well  done,"  said  I ;  "  but  are  you  sure 
Your  down,  so  warm,  will  pass  for  pure?" 
Chorus.     "Well  done,"  said  I,  &c 


21* 


246  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

Full  Chorus.    Welcome  all  wonders  in  one  sight ! 

Eternity  shut  in  a  span  ! 
Summer  in  winter  !  day  in  night  ! 

Heaven  in  earth,  and  God  in  man  ! 
Great  little  one,  whose  all-embracing  birth 
Lifts  earth  to  heaven,  stoops  heaven  to  earth  ! 

*  *  *  • 

Welcome — though  not  to  those  gay  flies 
Gilded  i'  th'  beams  of  earthly  kings — ■ 

Slippery  souls  in  smiling  eyes — 

But  to  poor  shepherds,  homespun  things, 

Whose  wealth's  their  flocks,  whose  wit's  to  be 

Well  read  in  their  simplicity. 

Yet  when  young  April's  husband  showers 

Shall  bless  the  fruitful  Maia's  bed, 
We'll  bring  the  firstborn  of  her  flowers 

To  kiss  thy  feet,  and  crown  thy  head  : 
To  thee,  dear  Lamb  !  whose  love  must  keep 
The  shepherds  while  they  feed  their  sheep. 

To  thee,  meek  Majesty,  soft  king 

Of  simple  graces  and  sweet  loves, 
Each  of  us  his  lamb  will  bring, 

Each  his  pair  of  silver  doves. 
At  last,  in  fire  of  thy  fair  eyes, 
Ourselves  become  our  own  best  sacrifice. 

A  splendid  line  to  end  with !  too  good  for  the  pre- 
ceding one.  All  temples  and  altars,  all  priesthoods 
and  prayers,  must  vanish  in  this  one  and  only  sacri- 
fice. Exquisite,  however,  as  the  poem  is,  we  cannot 
help  wishing  it  looked  less  heathenish.  Its  decora- 
tions are  certainly  meretricious. 

From  a  few  religious  poems  of  Sir  Edward  Sher- 
burne, another  Roman  Catholic,  and  a  firm  adherent 
of  Charles  I.?  J  choose  tlje  following — the  only  one  I 
care  for. 


ANDREW  MARVELL.  247 


AND  THEY  LAID  HIM  IN  A  MANGER. 

Happy  crib,  that  wert,  alone, 

To  my  God,  bed,  cradle,  throne  ! 

Whilst  thy  glorious  vileness  I 

View  with  divine  fancy's  eye, 

Sordid  filth  seems  all  the  cost, 

State,  and  splendour,  crowns  do  boast. 

See  heaven's  sacred  majesty 
Humbled  beneath  poverty  ; 
Swaddled  up  in  homely  rags, 
On  a  bed  of  straw  and  flags  ! 
He  whose  hands  the  heavens  displayed, 
And  the  world's  foundations  laid, 
From  the  world  's  almost  exiled, 
Of  all  ornaments  despoiled. 
Perfumes  bathe  him  not,  new-born ; 
Persian  mantles  not  adorn  ; 
Nor  do  the  rich  roofs  look  bright 
With  the  jasper's  orient  light. 

Where,  O  royal  infant,  be 
The  ensigns  of  thy  majesty  ; 
Thy  Sire's  equalizing  state; 
And  thy  sceptre  that  rules  fate  ? 
Where's  thy  angel-guarded  throne, 
Whence  thy  laws  thou  didst  make  known — 
Laws  which  heaven,  earth,  hell  obeyed  ? 
These,  ah  !  these  aside  he  laid ; 
Would  the  emblem  be— of  pride 
By  humility  outvied. 

I  pass  by  Abraham  Cowley,  mighty  reputation  as 
he  has  had,  without  further  remark  than  that  he  is 
too  vulgar  to  be  admired  more  than  occasionally,  and 
too  artificial  almost  to  be,  as  a  poet,  loved  at  all. 

Andrew  Marvell,  member  of  Parliament  for  Hull 
both  before  and  after  the  Restoration,  was  twelve 
years  younger  than  his  friend  Milton.     Any  one  of 


248  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

some  half-dozen  of  his  few  poems  is  to  my  mind 
worth  all  the  verse  that  Cowley  ever  made.  It  is  a 
pity  he  wrote  so  little ;  but  his  was  a  life  as  diligent, 
I  presume,  as  it  was  honourable. 

ON  A  DROP  OF  DEW. 

See  how  the  orient  dew, 

Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 
Into  the  blowing  roses, 
Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new 

For  the  clear  region  where  'twas  born, 

Round  in  itself  encloses,  used  intransitively. 

And  in  its  little  globe's  extent, 
Frames  as  it  can  its  native  element. 
How  it  the  purple  flower  does  slight, 

Scarce  touching  where  it  lies, 
But  gazing  back  upon  the  skies, 
Shines  with  a  mournful  light, 
Like  its  own  tear, 
Because  so  long  divided  from  the  sphere : 
Restless  it  rolls,  and  unsecure, 

Trembling  lest  it  grow  impure, 
Till  the  warm  sun  pity  its  pain, 
And  to  the  skies  exhale  it  back  again. 

So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray 
Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal  day, 
Could  it  within  the  human  flower  be  seen, 
Remembering  still  its  former  height, 
Shuns  the  sweet  leaves  and  blossoms  green ; 
And,  recollecting  its  own  light, 
Does,  in  its  pure  and  circling  thoughts,  express 
The  greater  heaven  in  an  heaven  less. 
In  how  coy  a  figure  wound, 
Every  way  it  turns  away, 
So  the  world  excluding  round, 

Yet  receiving  in  the  day ; 
Dark  beneath  but  bright  above, 
Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 


THE  CORONET.  249 


How  loose  and  easy  hence  to  go  ! 
How  girt  and  ready  to  ascend  ! 
Moving  but  on  a  point  below, 
It  all  about  does  upwards  bend. 
Such  did  the  manna's  sacred  dew  distil — 
White  and  entire,1  though  congealed  and  chill — 
Congealed  on  earth,  but  does,  dissolving,  run 
Into  the  glories  of  the  almighty  sun. 

Surely  a  lovely  fancy  of  resemblance,  exquisitely 
wrought  out ;  an  instance  of  the  lighter  play  of  the 
mystical  mind,  which  yet  shadows  forth  truth. 

THE  CORONET. 

When  for  the  thorns  with  which  I  long  too  long, 

With  many  a  piercing  wound, 

My  Saviour's  head  have  crowned, 
I  seek  with  garlands  to  redress  that  wrong, 

Through  every  garden,  every  mead 
I  gather  flowers — my  fruits  are  only  flowers — 

Dismantling  all  the  fragrant  towers 
That  once  adorned  my  shepherdess's  head ; 
And  now,  when  I  have  summed  up  all  my  store, 

Thinking — so  I  myself  deceive — 

So  rich  a  chaplet  thence  to  weave 
As  never  yet  the  King  of  glory  wore;) 

Alas  !  I  find  the  serpent  old, 

That,  twining  in  his  speckled  breast, 

About  the  flowers  disguised  does  fold, 

With  wreaths  of  fame  and  interest. 
Ah,  foolish  man  that  wouldst  debase  with  them 
And  mortal  glory,  heaven's  diadem ! 
But  thou  who  only  couldst  the  serpent  tame, 
Either  his  slippery  knots  at  once  untie, 
And  disentangle  all  his  winding  snare, 
Or  shatter  too  with  him  my  curious  frame,2 

1  A  trisyllable.  2  His  garland. 


250  ENGLAND  >S  ANTIPHON. 

And  let  these  wither,  that  so  he  may  die, 
Though  set  with  skill,  and  chosen  out  with  care ; 
That  they,  while  thou  on  both  their  spoils  dost  tread, 
May  crown  thy  feet  that  could  not  crown  thy  head. 

A  true  sacrifice  of  worship,  if  not  a  garland  of 
praise  !  The  disciple  would  have  his  works  tried  by 
the  fire,  not  only  that  the  gold  and  the  precious 
stones  may  emerge  relucent,  but  that  the  wood  and 
hay  and  stubble  may  perish.  The  will  of  God  alone, 
not  what  we  may  have  effected,  deserves  our  care. 
In  the  perishing  of  our  deeds  they  fall  at  his  feet : 
in  our  willing  their  loss  we  crown  his  head. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A   MOUNT   OF   VISION — HENRY  VAUGHAN. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  the  borders  of  a  long,  dreary 
tract,  which,  happily  for  my  readers,  I  can  shorten 
for  them  in  this  my  retrospect.  From  the  heights 
of  Henry  Vaughan's  verse,  I  look  across  a  stony 
region,  with  a  few  feeble  oases  scattered  over  it,  and 
a  hazy  green  in  the  distance.  It  does  not  soften  the 
dreariness  that  its  stones  are  all  laid  in  order,  that  the 
spaces  which  should  be  meadows  are  skilfully  paved. 

Henry  Vaughan  belongs  to  the  mystical  school, 
but  his  poetry  rules  his  theories.  You  find  no  more 
of  the  mystic  than  the  poet  can  easily  govern ;  in  fact, 
scarcely  more  than  is  necessary  to  the  highest  poetry. 
He  develops  his  mysticism  upwards,  with  relation  to 
his  higher  nature  alone:  it  blossoms  into  poetry.  His 
twin-brother  Thomas  developed  his  mysticism  down- 
wards in  the  direction  of  the  material  sciences — a  true 
effort  still,  but  one  in  which  the  danger  of  ceasing  to 
be  true  increases  with  increasing  ratio  the  further  it  is 
carried. 

They  were  born  in  South  Wales  in  the  year  1621. 
Thomas  was  a  clergyman  ;  Henry  a  doctor  of  medi- 


252  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

cine.  Both  were  Royalists,  and  both  suffered  in  the 
cause — Thomas  by  expulsion  from  his  living,  Henry 
by  imprisonment.  Thomas  died  soon  after  the 
Restoration  ;  Henry  outlived  the  Revolution. 

Henry  Vaughan  was  then  nearly  thirty  years 
younger  than  George  Herbert,  whom  he  consciously 
and  intentionally  imitates.  His  art  is  not  comparable 
to  that  of  Herbert :  hence  Herbert  remains  the  master  ; 
for  it  is  not  the  thought  that  makes  the  poet  ;  it  is 
the  utterance  of  that  thought  in  worthy  presence  of 
speech.  He  is  careless  and  somewhat  rugged.  If  he 
can  get  his  thought  dressed,  and  thus  made  visible,  he 
does  not  mind  the  dress  fitting  awkwardly,  or  even 
being  a  little  out  at  elbows.  And  yet  he  has  grander 
lines  and  phrases  than  any  in  Herbert.  He  has  occa- 
sionally a  daring  success  that  strikes  one  with  aston- 
ishment. In  a  word,  he  says  more  splendid  things 
than  Herbert,  though  he  writes  inferior  poems.  His 
thought  is  profound  and  just ;  the  harmonies  in  his 
soul  are  true  ;  its  artistic  and  musical  ear  is  defective. 
His  movements  are  sometimes  grand,  sometimes 
awkward.  Herbert  is  always  gracious — I  use  the 
word  as  meaning  much  more  than  graceful. 

The  following  poem  will  instance  Vaughan's  fine 
mysticism  and  odd  embodiment : 

COCK-CROWING. 

Father  of  lights  !  what  sunny  seed, 
What  glance  of  day  hast  thou  confined 
Into  this  bird  ?     To  all  the  breed 
This  busy  ray  thou  hast  assigned ; 

Their  magnetism  works  all  night, 

And  dreams  of  Paradise  and  light. 


HENR  Y  VA  UGHAN—COCK-CRO  WING.         253 

Their  eyes  watch  for  the  morning  hue ; 
Their  little  grain,1  expelling  night, 
So  shines  and  sings,  as  if  it  knew 
The  path  unto  the  house  of  light : 

It  seems  their  candle,  howe'er  done, 

Was  tined2  and  lighted  at  the  sun. 

If  such  a  tincture,  such  a  touch, 
So  firm  a  longing  can  empower, 
Shall  thy  own  image  think  it  much 
To  watch  for  thy  appearing  hour  ? 

If  a  mere  blast  so  fill  the  sail, 

Shall  not  the  breath  of  God  prevail  ? 

O  thou  immortal  Light  and  Heat, 

Whose  hand  so  shines  through  all  this  frame, 

That  by  the  beauty  of  the  seat, 

We  plainly  see  who  made  the  same ! 

Seeing  thy  seed  abides  in  me, 

Dwell  thou  in  it,  and  I  in  thee. 

To  sleep  without  thee  is  to  die  ; 
Yea,  'tis  a  death  partakes  of  hell ; 
For  where  thou  dost  not  close  the  eye, 
It  never  opens,  I  can  tell  : 

In  such  a  dark,  Egyptian  border 

The  shades  of  death  dwell  and  disorder 

Its  joys  and  hopes  and  earnest  throws, 
And  hearts  whose  pulse  beats  still  for  light, 
Are  given  to  birds,  who  but  thee  knows 
A  love-sick  soul's  exalted  flight  ? 

Can  souls  be  tracked  by  any  eye 

But  his  who  gave  them  wings  to  fly  ? 

Only  this  veil,  which  thou  hast  broke, 

And  must  be  broken  yet  in  me  ; 

This  veil,  I  say,  is  all  the  cloak 

And  cloud  which  shadows  me  from  thee. 

This  veil  thy  full- eyed  love  denies, 

And  only  gleams  and  fractions  spies. 

1  The  "  sunny  seed  "  in  their  hearts. 

*  From  tine  or  tind.  to  set  on  fire.     Hence  tinder. 


22 


254  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

O  take  it  off.     Make  no  delay, 
But  brush  me  with  thy  light,  that  I 
May  shine  unto  a  perfect  day, 
And  warm  me  at  thy  glorious  eye. 

O  take  it  off;  or,  till  it  flee, 

Though  with  no  lily,  stay  with  me. 

I  have  no  room  for  poems  often  quoted,  therefore 

not  for  that  lovely  one  beginning  "  They  are  all  gone 

into  the  world  of  light;"  but  I  must   not  omit   The 

Retreat,  for  besides  its  worth,  I  have  another  reason 

for  presenting  it. 

THE  RETREAT. 

Happy  those  early  days  when  I 
Shined  in  my  angel -infancy  ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought ; 
"When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 
And,  looking  back,  at  that  short  space 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face  ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense ; 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 
O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 
Where  fi/st  I  left  my  glorious  train, 
From  whence  the  enlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  city  of  palm-trees. 


COMPARISON  WITH  WORDSWORTH.         255 

But  ah !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move ; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came  return. 

Let  any  one  who  is  well  acquainted  with  Words- 
worth's grand  ode — that  on  the  Intimations  of  Immor- 
tality— turn  his  mind  to  a  comparison  between  that 
and  this  :  he  will  find  the  resemblance  remarkable. 
Whether  The  Retreat  suggested  the  form  of  the 
Ode  is  not  of  much  consequence,  for  the  Ode  is  the 
outcome  at  once  and  essence  of  all  Wordsworth's 
theories ;  and  whatever  he  may  have  drawn  from  The 
Retreat  is  glorified  in  the  Ode.  Still  it  is  interesting 
to  compare  them.  Vaughan  believes  with  Words- 
worth and  some  other  great  men  that  this  is  not  our 
first  stage  of  existence ;  that  we  are  haunted  by 
dim  memories  of  a  former  state.  This  belief  is  not 
necessary,  however,  to  sympathy  with  the  poem,  for 
whether  the  present  be  our  first  life  or  no,  we 
have  come  from  God,  and  bring  from  him  conscience 
and  a  thousand  godlike  gifts. — "  Happy  those  early 
days,"  Vaughan  begins  :  "  There  was  a  time,"  begins 
Wordsworth,  "when  the  earth  seemed  apparelled 
in  celestial  light."  "  Before  I  understood  this  place," 
continues  Vaughan  :  "  Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized,"  says  Words- 
worth. "  A  white  celestial  thought,"  says  Vaughan : 
"  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,"  says  Words- 
worth. "A  mile  or  two  off,  I  could  see  his  face," 
says  Vaughan :    "  Trailing    clouds   of  glory   do   we 


256  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


come/'  says  Wordsworth.  "  On  some  gilded  cloud 
or  flower,  my  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour," 
says  Vaughan  :  "  The  hour  of  splendour  in  the  grass, 
of  glory  in  the  flower,"  says  Wordsworth. 

Wordsworth's  poem  is  the  profounder  in  its  philo- 
sophy, as  well  as  far  the  grander  and  lovelier  in  its 
poetry  ;  but  in  the  moral  relation,  Vaughan's  poem  is 
the  more  definite  of  the  two,  and  gives  us  in  its 
close,  poor  as  that  is  compared  with  the  rest  of  it,  just 
what  we  feel  is  wanting  in  Wordsworth's — the  hope 
of  return  to  the  bliss  of  childhood.  We  may  be 
comforted  for  what  we  lose  by  what  we  gain  ;  but 
that  is  not  a  recompense  large  enough  to  be  divine : 
we  want  both.  Vaughan  will  be  a  child  again.  For 
the  movements  of  man's  life  are  in  spirals :  we  go 
back  whence  we  came,  ever  returning  on  our  former 
traces,  only  upon  a  higher  level,  on  the  next  up- 
ward coil  of  the  spiral,  so  that  it  is  a  going  back 
and  a  going  forward  ever  and  both  at  once.  Life  is, 
as  it  were,  a  constant  repentance,  or  thinking  of  it 
again  :  the  childhood  of  the  kingdom  takes  the  place 
of  the  childhood  of  the  brain,  but  comprises  all  that 
was  lovely  in  the  former  delight.  The  heavenly 
children  will  subdue  kingdoms,  work  righteousness, 
wax  valiant  in  fight,  rout  the  armies  of  the  aliens, 
merry  of  heart  as  when  in  the  nursery  of  this  world 
they  fought  their  fancied  frigates,  and  defended  their 
toy-battlements. 

Here  are  the  beginning  and  end  of  another  of 
similar  purport : 


FANCY'S  AID  TO  THINKING.  257 


CHILDHOOD. 

I  cannot  reach  it ;  and  my  striving  eye 
Dazzles  at  it,  as  at  eternity. 
Were  now  that  chronicle  alive, 
Those  white  designs  which  children  drive, 
And  the  thoughts  of  each  harmless  hour, 
With  their  content  too  in  my  power, 
Quickly  would  I  make  my  path  even, 
And  by  mere  playing  go  to  heaven. 


An  age  of  mysteries  !  which  he 
Must  live  twice  that  would  God's  face  see ; 
Which  angels  guard,  and  with  it  play — 
Angels  which  foul  men  drive  away. 

How  do  I  study  now,  and  scan 
Thee  more  than  e'er  I  studied  man, 
And  only  see,  through  a  long  night, 
Thy  edges  and  thy  bordering  light ! 
O  for  thy  centre  and  mid-day ! 
For  sure  that  is  the  narrow  way ! 

Many  a  true  thought  comes  out  by  the  help  of  a 
fancy  or  half-playful  exercise  of  the  thinking  power. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  such  fancy  in  the  following 
poem,  but  in  the  end  it  rises  to  the  height  of  the 
purest  and  best  mysticism.  We  must  not  forget 
that  the  deepest  man  can  utter,  will  be  but  the  type 
or  symbol  of  a  something  deeper  yet,  of  which 
he  can  perceive  only  a  doubtful  glimmer.  This  will 
serve  for  general  remark  upon  the  mystical  mode, 
as  well  as  for  comment  explanatory  of  the  close  of 
the  poem. 


22 


258  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON 


THE  NIGHT. 
John  iii.  2. 

Through  that  pure  virgin-shrine, 
That  sacred  veil1  drawn  o'er  thy  glorious  noon, 
That  men  might  look  and  live,  as  glowworms  shine, 
And  face  the  moon, 

Wise  Nicodemus  saw  such  light 

As  made  him  know  his  God  by  night. 

Most  blest  believer  he, 
Who  in  that  land  of  darkness  and  blind  eyes, 
Thy  long-expected  healing  wings  could  see 
When  thou  didst  rise ! 

And,  what  can  never  more  be  done, 

Did  at  midnight  speak  with  the  sun ! 

O  who  will  tell  me  where 
He  found  thee  at  that  dead  and  silent  hour? 
What  hallowed  solitary  ground  did  bear 
So  rare  a  flower, 

Within  whose  sacred  leaves  did  lie 

The  fulness  of  the  Deity? 

No  mercy-seat  of  gold, 

No  dead  and  dusty  cherub,  nor  carved  stone, 

But  his  own  living  works  did  my  Lord  hold 
And  lodge  alone, 
Where  trees  and  herbs  did  watch  and  peep 
And  wonder,  while  the  Jews  did  sleep. 
Dear  night !  this  world's  defeat ; 

The  stop  to  busy  fools  ;  care's  check  and  curb, 

The  day  of  spirits  ;  my  soul's  calm  retreat 
Which  none  disturb ! 
Christ's  progress,  and  his  prayer  time,2 
The  hours  to  which  high  heaven  doth  chime !  * 

1  The  body  of  Jesus. 

2  Mark  i.  35  ;  Luke  xxi.  37.  The  word  time  must  be  associated  both 
with  progress  and  prayer — his  walking-time  and  prayer-time. 

3  This  is  an  allusion  to  the  sphere-music :  the  great  heavens  is  a  clock 
whose  hours  are  those  when  Jesus  retires  to  his  Father;  and  to  these 
hours  the  sphere-music  gives  the  chime. 


THE  CELL  AND  THE  SILENCE.  259 

God's  silent,  searching  flight ; 1 
When  my  Lord's  head  is  filled  with  dew,  and  all 
His  locks  are  wet  with  the  clear  drops  of  night, 
His  still,  soft  call ; 

His  knocking  time;2  the  soul's  dumb  watch, 

When  spirits  their  fair  kindred  catch. 

Were  all  my  loud,  evil3  days 
Calm  and  unhaunted  as  is  thy  dark  tent, 
Whose  peace  but  by  some  angel's  wing  or  voice 
Is  seldom  rent, 

Then  I  in  heaven  all  the  long  year 

Would  keep,  and  never  wander  here. 

But  living  where  the  sun 
Doth  all  things  wake,  and  where  all  mix  and  tire 
Themselves  and  others,  I  consent  and  run 
To  every  mire ; 

And  by  this  world's  ill  guiding  light, 

Err  more  than  I  can  do  by  night 

There  is  in  God,  some  say, 
A  deep  but  dazzling  darkness  ;  as  men  here 
Say  it  is  late  and  dusky,  because  they 
See  not  all  clear : 

O  for  that  night !  where  I  in  him 

Might  live  invisible  and  dim  ! 

This  is  glorious  ;  and  its  lesson  of  quiet  and  retire- 
ment we  need  more  than  ever  in  these  hurried  days 
upon  which  we  have  fallen.  If  men  would  but  be  still 
enough  in  themselves  to  hear,  through  all  the  noises 
of  the  busy  light,  the  voice  that  is  ever  talking  on 
in  the  dusky  chambers  of  their  hearts  !  Look  at  his 
love  for  Nature,  too  ;  and  read  the  fourth  stanza  in 
connexion  with  my  previous  remarks  upon  symbolism. 

1  He  continues  his  poetic  synonyms  for  the  night. 

2  "  Behold  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock." 
8  A  monosylhb!e 

S   2 


260  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

I  think  this  poem  grander  than  any  of  George  Her- 
bert's.    I  use  the  word  with  intended  precision. 

Here  is  one,  the  end  of  which  is  not  so  good, 
poetically  considered,  as  the  magnificent  beginning, 
but  which  contains  striking  lines  throughout : — 

THE  DAWNING. 

Ah !  what  time  wilt  thou  come  ?   When  shall  that  crv. 

The  Bridegroom  \r  coming,  fill  the  sky  ? 

Shall  it  in  the  evening  run 

When  our  words  and  works  are  done  ? 

Or  will  thy  all-surprising  light 

Break  at  midnight, 

When  either  sleep  or  some  dark  pleasure 

Possesseth  mad  man  without  measure  ? 

Or  shall  these  early,  fragrant  hours 

Unlock  thy  bowers,1 

And  with  their  blush  of  light  descry 

Thy  locks  crowned  with  eternity? 

Indeed,  it  is  the  only  time 

That  with  thy  glory  doth  best  chime : 

All  now  are  stirring  ;  every  field 

Full  hymns  doth  yield ; 

The  whole  creation  shakes  off  night, 

And  for  thy  shadow  looks  the  light  ;a 

Stars  now  vanish  without  number  ; 

Sleepy  planets  set  and  slumber  ; 

The  pursy  clouds  disband  and  scatter ; — • 

All  expect  some  sudden  matter  ; 

Not  one  beam  triumphs,  but,  from  far, 

That  morning-star. 

O,  at  what  time  soever  thou, 
Unknown  to  us,  the  heavens  wilt  bow, 
And,  with  thy  angels  in  the  van, 
Descend  to  judge  poor  careless  man, 

1  Often  used  for  chambers. 

*  "  The  creation  looks  for  the  light,  thy  shadow  ?  "     Or,  "  The  light 
looks  for  thy  shadow,  the  sun  "  ? 


THE  DA  WNING.  261 


Grant  I  may  not  like  puddle  lie 

In  a  corrupt  security, 

Where,  if  a  traveller  water  crave, 

He  finds  it  dead,  and  in  a  grave  ; 

But  as  this  restless,  vocal  spring 

All  day  and  night  doth  run  and  sing, 

And  though  here  born,  yet  is  acquainted 

Elsewhere,  and,  flowing,  keeps  untainted, 

So  let  me  all  my  busy  age 

In  thy  free  services  engage  ; 

And  though,  while  here,  of  force,1  I  must 

Have  commerce  sometimes  with  poor  dust,2 

And  in  my  flesh,  though  vile  and  low, 

As  this  doth  in  her  channel,  flow, 

Yet  let  my  course,  my  aim,  my  love, 

And  chief  acquaintance  be  above. 

So  when  that  day  and  hour  shall  come, 

In  which  thyself  will  be  the  sun, 

Thou 'It  find  me  drest  and  on  my  way, 

Watching  the  break  of  thy  great  day. 

I  do  not  think  that  description  of  the  dawn  has 
ever  been  surpassed.  The  verse  "All  expect  some 
sudden  matter,"  is  wondrously  fine.  The  water 
"  dead  and  in  a  grave,"  because  stagnant,  is  a  true 
fancy  ;  and  the  "  acquainted  elsewhere "  of  the  run- 
ning stream,  is  a  masterly  phrase.  I  need  not  point 
out  the  symbolism  of  the  poem. 

I  do  not  know  a  writer,  Wordsworth  not  excepted, 
who  reveals  more  delight  in  the  visions  of  Nature 
than  Henry  Vaughan.  He  is  a  true  forerunner  of 
Wordsworth,  inasmuch  as  the  latter  sets  forth  with 
only  greater  profundity  and  more  art  than  he,  the 
relations  between  Nature  and  Human  Nature  ;  while, 

1  Perforce:  of  necessity. 

3  He  does  not  mean  his  fellows,  but  his  bodily  nature. 


262  ENGLAND'S  ANTJPHON. 


on  the  other  hand,  he  is  the  forerunner  as  well  of  some 
one  that  must  yet  do  what  Wordsworth  has  left  almost 
unattempted,  namely — set  forth  the  sympathy  of 
Nature  with  the  aspirations  of  the  spirit  that  is  born 
of  God,  born  again,  I  mean,  in  the  recognition  of  the 
child's  relation  to  the  Father.  Both  Herbert  and 
Vaughan  have  thus  read  Nature,  the  latter  turning 
many  leaves  which  few  besides  have  turned.  In  this 
he  has  struck  upon  a  deeper  and  richer  lode  than  even 
Wordsworth,  although  he  has  not  wrought  it  with 
half  his  skill.  In  any  history  of  the  development  of 
the  love  of  the  present  age  for  Nature,  Vaughan, 
although  I  fear  his  influence  would  be  found  to 
have  been  small  as  yet,  must  be  represented  as  the 
Phosphor  of  coming  dawn.  Beside  him,  Thomson 
is  cold,  artistic,  and  gray:  although  larger  in  scope, 
he  is  not  to  be  compared  with  him  in  sympathetic 
sight.  It  is  this  insight  that  makes  Vaughan  a 
mystic.  He  can  see  one  thing  everywhere,  and  all 
things  the  same — yet  each  with  a  thousand  sides 
that  radiate  crossing  lights,  even  as  the  airy  particles 
around  us.  For  him  everything  is  the  expression  of, 
and  points  back  to,  some  fact  in  the  Divine  Thought. 
Along  the  line  of  every  ray  he  looks  towards  its 
radiating  centre — the  heart  of  the  Maker. 

I  could  give  many  instances  of  Vaughan's  power 
in  reading  the  heart  of  Nature,  but  I  may  not  dwell 
upon  this  phase.  Almost  all  the  poems  I  give  and 
have  given  will  afford  such. 


A  NAMELESS  POEM.  263 


I  walked  the  other  day,  to  spend  my  hour, 

Into  a  field, 
Where  I  sometimes  had  seen  the  soil  to  yield 

A  gallant  flower ; 
But  winter  now  had  ruffled  all  the  bower 

And  curious  store 
I  knew  there  heretofore. 

Yet  I  whose  search  loved  not  to  peep  and  peer 

I'  th'  face  of  things, 
Thought  with  myself,  there  might  be  other  springs 

Besides  this  here, 
Which,  like  cold  friends,  sees  us  but  once  a  year ; 

And  so  the  flower 
Might  have  some  other  bower. 

Then  taking  up  what  I  could  nearest  spy, 

I  digged  about 
That  place  where  I  had  seen  him  to  grow  out ; 

And  by  and  by 
I  saw  the  warm  recluse  alone  to  lie, 

Where  fresh  and  green 
He  lived  of  us  unseen. 

Many  a  question  intricate  and  rare 

Did  I  there  strow  ; 
But  all  I  could  extort  was,  that  he  now 

Did  there  repair 
Such  losses  as  befell  him  in  this  air, 

And  would  ere  long 
Come  forth  most  fair  and  young. 

This  past,  T  threw  the  clothes  quite  o'er  his  head ; 

And,  stung  with  fear 
Of  my  own  frailty,  dropped  down  many  a  tear 

Upon  his  bed ; 
Then  sighing,  whispered,  Happy  are  the  dead! 

What  peace  doth  now 
Rock  him  asleep  below  ! 


264  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

And  yet,  how  few  believe  such  doctrine  springs 

From  a  poor  root 
Which  all  the  winter  sleeps  here  under  foot, 

And  hath  no  wings 
To  raise  it  to  the  truth  and  light  of  things, 

But  is  still  trod 
By  every  wandering  clod  ! 

O  thou,  whose  spirit  did  at  first  inflame 

And  warm  the  dead  ! 
And  by  a  sacred  incubation  fed 

With  life  this  frame, 
Which  once  had  neither  being,  form,  nor  name ! 

Grant  I  may  so 
Thy  steps  track  here  below, 

That  in  these  masks  and  shadows  I  may  see 

Thy  sacred  way ; 
And  by  those  hid  ascents  climb  to  that  day 

Which  breaks  from  thee, 
Who  art  in  all  things,  though  invisibly  : 

Show  me  thy  peace, 
Thy  mercy,  love,  and  ease. 

And  from  this  care,  where  dreams  and  sorrows  reign, 

Lead  me  above, 
Where  light,  joy,  leisure,  and  true  comforts  move 

Without  all  pain  : 
There,  hid  in  thee,  show  me  his  life  again 

At  whose  dumb  urn 
Thus  all  the  year  I  mourn. 

There  are  several  amongst  his  poems  lamenting, 
like  this,  the  death  of  some  dear  friend — perhaps  his 
twin-brother,  whom  he  outlived  thirty  years. 

According  to  what  a  man  is  capable  of  seeing  in 
nature,  he  becomes  either  a  man  of  appliance,  a  man 
of  science,  a  mystic,  or  a  poet. 

I  must  now  give  two  that  are  simple  in  thought,  con- 


CHRIST'S  NA  TIVITY.  265 

struction,  and  music.  The  latter  ought  to  be  popular, 
from  the  nature  of  its  rhythmic  movement,  and  the 
holy  merriment  it  carries.  But  in  the  former,  note  how 
the  major  key  of  gladness  changes  in  the  third  stanza 
to  the  minor  key  of  aspiration,  which  has  always 
some  sadness  in  it ;  a  sadness  which  deepens  to  grief 
in  the  next  stanza  at  the  consciousness  of  unfitness 
for  Christ's  company,  but  is  lifted  by  hope  almost 
again  to  gladness  in  the  last. 

CHRIST'S  NATIVITY. 

Awake,  glad  heart !     Get  up,  and  sing ! 
It  is  the  birthday  of  thy  king ! 

Awake  !  awake  ! 

The  sun  doth  shake 
Light  from  his  locks,  and,  all  the  way 
Breathing  perfumes,  doth  spice  the  day. 

Awake  !  awake !     Hark  how  the  wood  rings 
Winds  whisper,  and  the  busy  springs 

A  concert  make  : 

Awake !  awake  ! 
Man  is  their  high-priest,  and  should  rise 
To  offer  up  the  sacrifice. 

I  would  I  were  some  bird  or  star, 
Fluttering  in  woods,  or  lifted  far 

Above  this  inn 

And  road  of  sin ! 
Then  either  star  or  bird  should  be 
Shining  or  singing  still  to  thee. 

I  would  I  had  in  my  best  part 

Fit  rooms  for  thee  !  or  that  my  heart 

Were  so  clean  as 

Thy  manger  was  ! 
But  I  am  all  filth,  and  obscene  ; 
Yet,  if  thou  wilt,  thou  canst  make  clean. 
23 


266  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON 


Sweet  Jesu  !  will  then.     Let  no  more 
This  leper  haunt  and  soil  thy  door. 

Cure  him,  ease  him  ; 

O  release  him ! 
And  let  once  more,  by  mystic  birth, 
The  Lord  of  life  be  born  in  earth. 


The  fitting  companion  to  this  is  his 


EASTER  HYMN. 

Death  and  darkness,  get  you  packing : 
Nothing  now  to  man  is  lacking. 
All  your  triumphs  now  are  ended, 
And  what  Adam  marred  is  mended. 
Graves  are  beds  now  for  the  weary ; 
Death  a  nap,  to  wake  more  merry ;  1 

Youth  now,  full  of  pious  duty, 
Seeks  in  thee  for  perfect  beauty ; 
The  weak  and  aged,  tired  with  length 
Of  days,  from  thee  look  for  new  strength  ; 
And  infants  with  thy  pangs  contest, 
As  pleasant  as  if  with  the  breast. 

Then  unto  him  who  thus  hath  thrown 
Even  to  contempt  thy  kingdom  down, 
And  by  his  blood  did  us  advance 
Unto  his  own  inheritance — 
To  him  be  glory,  power,  praise, 
From  this  unto  the  last  of  days ! 


We  must  now  descend  from  this  height  of  true 
utterance  into  the  Valley  of  Humiliation,  and  cannot 
do  better  than  console  ourselves  by  listening  to  the 
boy  in  mean  clothes,  of  the  fresh  and  well-favoured 
countenance,  whom  Christiana  and  her  fellow-pilgrims 
hear  singing  in  that  valley. 


JOHN  BUNYAN.  267 


He  that  is  down,  needs  fear  no  fall ; 

He  that  is  low,  no  pride ; 
He  that  is  humble  ever  shall 

Have  God  to  be  his  guide. 

I  am  content  with  what  I  have, 

Little  be  it  or  much ; 
And,  Lord,  contentment  still  I  crave, 

Because  thou  savesti  such. 

Fulness  to  such  a  burden  is 

That  go  on  pilgrimage ; 
Here  little,  and  hereafter  bliss, 

Is  best  from  age  to  age. 

I  could  not  have  my  book  without  one  word  in  it 
of  John  Bunyan,  the  tinker,  probably  the  gipsy,  who 
although  born  only  and  not  made  a  poet,  like  his 
great  brother,  John  Milton,  has  uttered  in  prose  a 
wealth  of  poetic  thought.  He  was  born  in  1628, 
twenty  years  after  Milton.  I  must  not,  however, 
remark  on  this  noble  Bohemian  of  literature  and 
prophecy ;  but  leaving  at  length  these  flowery  hills 
and  meadows  behind  me,  step  on  my  way  across  the 
desert. — England  had  now  fallen  under  the  influence 
of  France  instead  of  Italy,  and  that  influence  has 
never  been  for  good  to  our  literature,  at  least.  Thence 
its  chief  aim  grew  to  be  a  desirable  trimness  of  speech 
and  logical  arrangement  of  matter — good  external 
qualities  purchased  at  a  fearful  price  with  the  loss 
of  all  that  makes  poetry  precious.  The  poets  of 
England,  with  John  Dryden  at  their  head,  ceased 
almost  for  a  time  to  deal  with  the  truths  of  humanity, 
and   gave  themselves  to  the  facts   and   relations  of 

1  Savour  est? 


268  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

society.  The  nation  which  could  recall  the  family  of 
the  Stuarts  must  necessarily  fall  into  such  a  decay  of 
spiritual  life  as  should  render  its  literature  only 
respectable  at  the  best,  and  its  religious  utterances 
essentially  vulgar.     But  the  decay  is  gradual. 

Bishop  Ken,  born  in  1637,  is  known  chiefly  by 
his  hymns  for  the  morning  and  evening,  deservedly 
popular.  He  has,  however,  written  a  great  many 
besides — too  many,  indeed,  for  variety  or  excellence. 
He  seems  to  have  set  himself  to  write  them  as  acts 
of  worship.  They  present  many  signs  of  a  perversion 
of  taste  which,  though  not  in  them  so  remarkable, 
rose  to  a  height  before  long.  He  annoys  us  besides 
by  the  constant  recurrence  of  certain  phrases,  one 
or  two  of  which  are  not  admirable,  and  by  using,  in 
the  midst  of  a  simple  style,  odd  Latin  words.  Here 
are  portions  of,  I  think,  one  of  his  best,  and  good  it  is. 

FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  CHRISTMAS. 


Lord,  'tis  thyself  who  hast  impressed 
In  native  light  on  human  breast, 
That  their  Creator  all 
Mankind  should  Father  call : 
A  father's  love  all  mortals  know, 
And  the  love  filial  which  they  owe. 

Our  Father  gives  us  heavenly  light, 
And  to  be  happy,  ghostly  sight ; 

He  blesses,  guides,  sustains ; 

He  eases  us  in  pains ; 
Abatements  for  our  weakness  makes, 
And  never  a  true  child  forsakes. 


BISHOP  THOMAS  KEN.  269 


He    waits  till  the  hard  heart  relents ; 
Our  self-damnation  he  laments ; 

He  sweetly  them  invites 

To  share  in  heaven's  delights  ; 
His  arms  he  opens  to  receive 
All  who  for  past  transgressions  grieve. 

My  Father  !  O  that  name  is  sweet 
To  sinners  mourning  in  retreat. 

God's  heart  paternal  yearns 

When  he  a  change  discerns ; 
He  to  his  favour  them  restores  ; 
He  heals  their  most  inveterate  sores. 
•  •  •  *  * 

Religious  honour,  humble  awe ; 
Obedience  to  our  Father's  law ; 

A  lively  grateful  sense 

Of  tenderness  immense  ; 
Full  trust  on  God's  paternal  cares ; 
Submission  which  chastisement  bears  ; 

Grief,  when  his  goodness  we  offend  ; 
Zeal,  to  his  likeness  to  ascend  ; 

Will,  from  the  world  refined, 

To  his  sole  will  resigned : 
These  graces  in  God's  children  shine, 
Reflections  of  the  love  divine. 

*  *  *  *  • 

God's  Son  co-equal  taught  us  all 
In  prayer  his  Father  ours  to  call :     ' 

With  confidence  in  need, 

We  to  our  Father  speed  : 
Of  his  own  Son  the  language  dear 
Intenerates  the  Father's  ear.  makes  tender. 

Thou  Father  art,  though  to  my  shame, 
I  often  forfeit  that  dear  name  j 

But  since  for  sin  I  grieve, 

Me  father-like  receive ; 
O  melt  me  into  filial  tears, 
To  pay  of  love  my  vast  arrears. 


23* 


270  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

O  Spirit  of  Adoption !   spread 

Thy  wings  enamouring  o'er  my  head  ; 

0  Filial  love  immense  ! 
Raise  me  to  love  intense ; 

O  Father,  source  of  love  divine, 

My  powers  to  love  and  hymn  incline  ! 

While  God  my  Father  I  revere, 
Nor  all  hell  powers,  nor  death  I  fear; 

1  am  my  Father's  care  ; 
His  succours  present  are. 

All  comes  from  my  loved  Father's  will, 
And  that  sweet  name  intends  no  ill. 

God's  Son  his  soul,  when  life  he  closed, 
In  his  dear  Father's  hands  reposed: 

I'll,  when  my  last  I  breathe, 

My  soid  to  God  bequeath ; 
And  panting  for  the  joys  on  high, 
Invoking  Love  Paternal,  die. 

Born  in  1657,  one  of  the  later  English  Platonists, 
John  Norris,  who,  with  how  many  incumbents  between 
I  do  not  know,  succeeded  George  Herbert  in  the  cure 
of  Bemerton,  has  left  a  few  poems,  which  would  have 
been  better  if  he  had  not  been  possessed  with  the 
common  admiration  for  the  rough-shod  rhythms  of 
Abraham  Cowley. 

Here  is  one  in  which  the  peculiarities  of  his  theories 
show  themselves  very  prominently.  There  is  a  con- 
stant tendency  in  such  to  wander  into  the  region  half- 
spiritual,  half-material. 

THE  ASPIRATION. 

Hpw  long,  great  God,  how  long  must  I 
Immured  in  this  dark  prison  lie ; 
My  §oul  must  watch  to  have  intelligence ; 
Where  at  the  grates  and  avenues  of  sense 


JOHN  NORRIS.  271 


Where  but  faint  gleams  of  thee  salute  my  sight, 
Like  doubtful  moonshine  in  a  cloudy  night  ? 
When  shall  I  leave  this  magic  sphere, 
And  be  all  mind,  all  eye,  all  ear  ? 

How  cold  this  clime  !  And  yet  my  sense 
Perceives  even  here  thy  influence. 
Even  here  thy  strong  magnetic  charms  I  feel, 
And  pant  and  tremble  like  the  amorous  steel. 
To  lower  good,  and  beauties  less  divine, 
Sometimes  my  erroneous  needle  does  decline, 
But  yet,  so  strong  the  sympathy, 
It  turns,  and  points  again  to  thee. 

I  long  to  see  this  excellence 

Which  at  such  distance  strikes  my  sense. 
My  impatient  soul  struggles  to  disengage 
Her  wings  from  the  confinement  of  her  cage. 
Wouldst  thou,  great  Love,  this  prisoner  once  set  free, 
How  would  she  hasten  to  be  linked  to  thee  ! 

She'd  for  no  angels'  conduct  stay, 

But  fly,  and  love  on  all  the  way. 


THE  RETURN. 

Dear  Contemplation  !  my  divinest  joy  ! 
When  I  thy  sacred  mount  ascend, 
What  heavenly  sweets  my  soul  employ ! 

Why  can't  I  there  my  days  for  ever  spend  ? 

When  I  have  conquered  thy  steep  heights  with  pain, 

What  pity  'tis  that  I  must  down  again  ! 

And  yet  I  must :  my  passions  would  rebel 

Should  I  too  long  continue  here  : 

No,  here  I  must  not  think  to  dwell, 
But  mind  the  duties  of  my  proper  sphere. 
So  angels,  though  they  heaven's  glories  know, 
Forget  not  to  attend  their  charge  below. 

The   old  hermits  thought  to   overcome   their  im- 
pulses by  retiring  from  the  world :  our  Platonist  has 


272  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

discovered  for  himself  that  the  world  of  duty  is  the 
only  sphere  in  which  they  can  be  combated.  Never 
perhaps  is  a  saint  more  in  danger  of  giving  way  to 
impulse,  let  it  be  anger  or  what  it  may,  than  in  the 
moment  when  he  has  just  descended  from  this  mount 
of  contemplation. 

We  find  ourselves  now  in  the  zone  of  ^W72-writing. 
From  this  period,  that  is,  from  towards  the  close  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  a  large  amount  of  the  fer- 
vour of  the  country  finds  vent  in  hymns  :  they  are 
innumerable.  With  them  the  scope  of  my  book 
would  not  permit  me  to  deal,  even  had  I  inclina- 
tion thitherward,  and  knowledge  enough  to  undertake 
their  history.  But  I  am  not  therefore  precluded  from 
presenting  any  hymn  whose  literary  excellence  makes 
it  worthy. 

It  is  with  especial  pleasure  that  I  refer  to  a  little 
book  which  was  once  a  household  treasure  in  a 
multitude  of  families,1  the  Spiritual  Songs  of  John 
Mason,  a  clergyman  in  the  county  of  Buckingham. 
The  date  of  his  birth  does  not  appear  to  be  known, 
but  the  first  edition  of  these  songs  2  was  published  in 
1683.  Dr.  Watts  was  very  fond  of  them  :  would  that 
he  had  written  with  similar  modesty  of  style !     A  few 

1  The  first  I  ever  saw  of  its  hymns  was  on  a  broad-sheet  of  Christmas 
Carols,  with  coloured  pictures,  printed  in  Seven  Dials. 

2  They  passed  through  twenty  editions,  not  to  mention  one  lately 
published  {by  Daniel  Sedgwick,  of  81,  Sun-street,  Bishopsgate,  a  man 
who,  concerning  hymns  and  their  writers,  knows  more  than  any  other 
man  I  have  met),  from  which,  carefully  edited,  I  have  gathered  all 
my  information,  although  I  had  known  the  book  itself  for  many 
years. 


JOHN  MASON:   SONG  OF  PRAISE.  273 

of  them  are  still  popular  in  congregational  singing. 
Here  is  the  first  in  the  book : 

A  GENERAL  SONG  OF  PRAISE  TO  ALMIGHTY  GOD. 

^low  shall  I  sing  that  Majesty 
Which  angels  do  admire  ? 
Let  dust  in  dust  and  silence  lie  ; 
Sing,  sing,  ye  heavenly  choir. 
Thousands  of  thousands  stand  around 

Thy  throne,  O  God  most  high  ; 
Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  sound 
Thy  praise  ;  but  who  am  I  ? 

Thy  brightness  unto  them  appears, 

Whilst  I  thy  footsteps  trace  ; 
A  sound  of  God  comes  to  my  ears ; 

But  they  behold  thy  face. 
They  sing  because  thou  art  their  sun : 

Lord,  send  a  beam  on  me  ; 
For  where  heaven  is  but  once  begun, 

There  hallelujahs  be. 

Enlighten  with  faith's  light  my  heart ; 

Enflame  it  with  love's  fire  ; 
Then  shall  I  sing  and  bear  a  part 

With  that  celestial  choir. 
I  shall,  I  fear,  be  dark  and  cold, 

With  all  my  fire  and  light ; 
Yet  when  thou  dost  accept  their  gold, 

Lord,  treasure  up  my  mite. 

How  great  a  being,  Lord,  is  thine. 

Which  doth  all  beings  keep  ! 
Thy  knowledge  is  the  only  line 

To  sound  so  vast  a  deep. 
Thou  art  a  sea  without  a  shore, 

A  sun  without  a  sphere ; 
Thy  time  is  now  and  evermore, 

Thy  place  is  everywhere, 
s.  L.  iv.  T 


274  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

How  good  art  thou,  whose  goodness  is 

Our  parent,  nurse,  and  guide  ! 
Whose  streams  do  water  Paradise, 

And  all  the  earth  beside  ! 
Thine  upper  and  thy  nether  springs 

Make  both  thy  worlds  to  thrive  ; 
Under  thy  warm  and  sheltering  wings 

Thou  keep'st  two  broods  alive.  * 

Thy  arm  of  might,  most  mighty  king 

Both  rocks  and  hearts  doth  break : 
My  God,  thou  canst  do  everything 

But  what  should  show  thee  weak. 
Thou  canst  not  cross  thyself,  or  be 

Less  than  thyself,  or  poor  ; 
But  whatsoever  pleaseth  thee, 

That  canst  thou  do,  and  more. 

Who  would  not  fear  thy  searching  eye, 

Witness  to  all  that's  true  ! 
Dark  Hell,  and  deep  Hypocrisy 

Lie  plain  before  its  view. 
Motions  and  thoughts  before  they  grow, 

Thy  knowledge  doth  espy; 
What  unborn  ages  are  to  do, 

Is  done  before  thine  eye. 

Thy  wisdom  which  both  makes  and  mends, 

We  ever  much  admire : 
Creation  all  our  wit  transcends  ; 

Redemption  rises  higher. 
Thy  wisdom  guides  strayed  sinners  home, 

'Twill  make  the  dead  world  rise, 
And  bring  those  prisoners  to  their  doom : 

Its  paths  are  mysteries. 

Great  is  thy  truth,  and  shall  prevail 

To  unbelievers'  shame  : 
Thy  truth  and  years  do  never  fail ; 

Thou  ever  art  the  same. 
Unbelief  is  a  raging  wave 

Dashing  against  a  rock : 
If  God  doth  not  his  Israel  save, 

Then  let  Egyptians  mock. 


CRY  FOR  COMMUNION  WITH  GOD.  275 


Most  pure  and  holy  are  thine  eyes, 

Most  holy  is  thy  name  ; 
Thy  saints,  and  laws,  and  penalties, 

Thy  holiness  proclaim. 
This  is  the  devil's  scourge  and  sting, 

This  is  the  angels'  song, 
Who  holy,  holy,  holy  sing, 

In  heavenly  Canaan's  tongue. 

Mercy,  that  shining  attribute, 

The  sinner's  hope  and  plea  ! 
Huge  hosts  of  sins  in  their  pursuit, 

Are  drowned  in  thy  Red  Sea. 
Mercy  is  God's  memorial, 

And  in  all  ages  praised  : 
My  God,  thine  only  Son  did  fall, 

That  Mercy  might  be  raised. 

Thy  bright  back-parts,  O  God  of  grace, 

I  humbly  here  adore  : 
Show  me  thy  glory  and  thy  face, 

That  I  may  praise  thee  more. 
Since  none  can  see  thy  face  and  live, 

For  me  to  die  is  best  : 
Through  Jordan's  streams  who  would  not  dive, 

To  land  at  Canaan's  rest  ? 

To  these  Songs  of  Praise  is  appended  another  series 
called  Penitential  Cries,  by  the  Rev.  Thomas  Shep- 
herd, who,  for  a  short  time  a  clergyman  in  Bucking- 
hamshire, became  the  minister  of  the  Congregational 
church  at  Northampton,  afterwards  under  the  care  of 
Doddridge.  Although  he  was  an  imitator  of  Mason, 
some  of  his  hymns  are  admirable.  The  following  I 
think  one  of  the  best : — 

FOR  COMMUNION  WITH  GOD. 

Alas,  my  God,  that  we  should  be 

Such  strangers  to  each  other  ! 
O  that  as  friends  we  might  agree, 

And  walk  and  talk  together  1 
T  2 


276  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Thou  know'st  my  soul  does  dearly  love 

The  place  of  thine  abode  ; 
No  music  drops  so  sweet  a  sound 

As  these  two  words,  My  God. 

*  *  *  * 

May  I  taste  that  communion,  Lord, 

Thy  people  have  with  thee  ? 
Thy  spirit  daily  talks  with  them, 

O  let  it  talk  with  me  ! 
Like  Enoch,  let  me  walk  with  God, 

And  thus  walk  out  my  day, 
Attended  with  the  heavenly  guards, 

Upon  the  king's  highway. 

When  wilt  thou  come  unto  me,  Lord  ? 

O  come,  my  Lord  most  dear  ! 
Come  near,  come  nearer,  nearer  still : 

I'm  well  when  thou  art  near. 

*  *  *  * 

When  wilt  thou  come  unto  me,  Lord? 

For,  till  thou  dost  appear, 
I  count  each  moment  for  a  day, 

Each  minute  for  a  year. 

*  *  *  * 

There's  no  such  thing  as  pleasure  here  ; 

My  Jesus  is  my  all : 
As  thou  dost  shine  or  disappear, 

My  pleasures  rise  and  fall. 
Come,  spread  thy  savour  on  my  frame — 

No  sweetness  is  so  sweet ; 
Till  I  get  up  to  sing  thy  name 

Where  all  thy  singers  meet. 

In  the  writings  of  both  we  recognize  a  straight- 
forwardness of  expression  equal  to  that  of  Wither, 
and  a  quaint  simplicity  of  thought  and  form  like  that 
of  Herrick  ;  while  the  very  charm  of  some  of  the  best 
lines  is  their  spontaneity.  The  men  have  just  enough 
mysticism  to  afford  them  homeliest  figures  for  deepest 
feelings. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON.  277 

I  turn  to  the  accomplished  Joseph  Addison. 

He  was  born  in  1672.  His  religious  poems  are 
so  well  known,  and  are  for  the  greater  part  so 
ordinary  in  everything  but  their  simplicity  of  com- 
position, that  I  should  hardly  have  cared  to  choose 
one,  had  it  not  been  that  we  owe  him  much  gratitude 
for  what  he  did,  in  the  reigns  of  Anne  and  George  I., 
to  purify  the  moral  taste  of  the  English  people  at  a 
time  when  the  influence  of  the  clergy  was  not  for 
elevation,  and  to  teach  the  love  of  a  higher  literature 
when  Milton  was  little  known  and  less  esteemed. 
Especially  are  we  indebted  to  him  for  his  modest 
and  admirable  criticism  of  the  Paradise  Lost  in  the 
Spectator. 

Of  those  few  poems  to  which  I  have  referred,  I 
choose  the  best  known,  because  it  is  the  best.  It  has 
to  me  a  charm  for  which  I  can  hardly  account. 

Yet  I  imagine  I  see  in  it  a  sign  of  the  poetic 
times :  a  flatness  of  spirit,  arising  from  the  evanish- 
ment  of  the  mystical  element,  begins  to  result  in  a 
worship  of  power.  Neither  power  nor  wisdom,  though 
infinite  both,  could  constitute  a  God  worthy  of  the 
worship  of  a  human  soul ;  and  the  worship  of  such  a 
God  must  sink  to  the  level  of  that  fancied  divinity. 
Small  wonder  is  it  then  that  the  lyric  should  now 
droop  its  wings  and  moult  the  feathers  of  its  praise. 
I  do  not  say  that  God's  more  glorious  attributes  are 
already  forgotten,  but  that  the  tendency  of  the 
Christian  lyric  is  now  to  laudation  of  power — and 
knowledge,  a  form  of  the  same — as  the  essential  of 
Godhead.  This  indicates  no  recalling  of  metaphysical 
24 


278  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

questions,  such  as  we  have  met  in  foregoing  verse, 
but  a  decline  towards  system ;  a  rising  passion — if 
anything  so  cold  may  be  called  a  passion — for  the 
reduction  of  all  things  to  the  forms  of  the  understand- 
ing, a  declension  which  has  prepared  the  way  for  the 
present  worship  of  science,  and  its  refusal,  if  not  denial, 
of  all  that  cannot  be  proved  in  forms  of  the  intellect. 

The  hymn  which  has  led  to  these  remarks  is  still 
good,  although,  like  the  loveliness  of  the  red  and 
lowering  west,  it  gives  sign  of  a  gray  and  cheerless 
dawn,  under  whose  dreariness  the  child  will  first  doubt 
if  his  father  loves  him,  and  next  doubt  if  he  has  a 
father  at  all,  and  is  not  a  mere  foundling  that  Nature 
has  lifted  from  her  path. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  etherial  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 
The  unwearied  sun  from  day  to  day 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display ; 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale  ; 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets,  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 
What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 


RE  VELA  TION  IN  NA  TURE.  279 


In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine  : 
"The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 


The  very  use  of  the  words  spangled  and  frame 
seems — to  my  fancy  only,  it  may  be — to  indicate  a 
tendency  towards  the  unworthy  and  theatrical.  Yet 
the  second  stanza  is  lovely  beyond  a  doubt ;  and  the 
whole  is  most  artistic,  although  after  a  tame  fashion. 
Whether  indeed  the  heavenly  bodies  teach  what  he 
says,  or  whether  we  should  read  divinity  worthy  of 
the  name  in  them  at  all,  without  the  human  revela- 
tion which  healed  men,  I  doubt  much.  That  divinity 
is  there — Yes ;  that  we  could  read  it  there  without 
having  seen  the  face  of  the  Son  of  Man  first,  I  think 
— No.  I  do  not  therefore  dare  imagine  that  no  revela- 
tion dimly  leading  towards  such  result  glimmered  in 
the  hearts  of  God's  chosen  amongst  Jews  and  Gentiles 
before  he  came.  What  I  say  is,  that  power  and 
order,  although  of  God,  and  preparing  the  way  for 
him,  are  not  his  revealers  unto  men.  No  doubt  King 
David  compares  the  perfection  of  God's  law  to  the 
glory  of  the  heavens,  but  he  did  not  learn  that  per- 
fection from  the  heavens,  but  from  the  law  itself, 
revealed  in  his  own  heart  through  the  life-teaching  of 
God.  When  he  had  learned  it  he  saw  that  the 
heavens  were  like  it. 

To  unveil  God,  only  manhood  like  our  own  will  serve. 
And  he  has  taken  the  form  of  man  that  he  might 
reveal  the  manhood  in  him  from  awful  eternity. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

THE  PLAIN. 

BUT  Addison's  tameness  is  wonderfully  lovely  be- 
side the  fervours  of  a  man  of  honoured  name, — 
Dr.  Isaac  Watts,  born  in  1674.  The  result  must 
be  dreadful  where  fervour  will  poetize  without  the 
aidful  restraints  of  art  and  modesty.  If  any  man 
would  look  upon  absurdity  in  the  garb  of  sobriety, 
let  him  search  Dryden's  Annus  Mirabilis :  Dr. 
Watts's  Lyrics  are  as  bad  ;  they  are  fantastic  to 
utter  folly.  An  admiration  of  "  the  incomparable 
Mr.  Cowley"  did  the  sense  of  them  more  injury  than 
the  imitation  of  his  rough-cantering  ode  could  do  their 
rhythm.  The  sentimentalities  of  Roman  Catholic 
writers  towards  our  Lord  and  his  mother,  are  not 
half  so  offensive  as  the  courtier-like  flatteries  Dr. 
Watts  offers  to  the  Most  High.  To  say  nothing  of 
the  irreverence,  the  vulgarity  is  offensive.  He  affords 
another  instance  amongst  thousands  how  little  the 
form  in  which  feeling  is  expressed  has  to  do  with 
the  feeling  itself.  In  him  the  thought  is  true,  the 
form  of  its  utterance  false ;  the  feeling  lovely,  the 
word,  often  to  a  degree,  repulsive.     The  ugly  web  is 


DR.  WATTS:  HAPPY  FRAILTY.  281 

crossed  now  and  then  by  a  fine  line,  and  even  damasked 
with  an  occasional  good  poem  :  I  have  found  two, 
and  only  two,  in  the  whole  of  his  seventy-five  Lyrics 
sacred  to  Devotion.  His  objectivity  and  boldness 
of  thought,  and  his  freedom  of  utterance,  cause  us 
ever  and  anon  to  lament  that  he  had  not  the  humility 
and  faith  of  an  artist  as  well  as  of  a  Christian. 

Almost  all  his  symbols  indicate  a  worship  of  power 
and  of  outward  show. 

I  give  the  best  of  the  two  good  poems  I  have 
mentioned,  and  very  good  it  is. 

HAPPY  FRAILTY. 

"  How  meanly  dwells  the  immortal  mind  ! 

How  vile  these  bodies  are  ! 
Why  was  a  clod  of  earth  designed 

To  enclose  a  heavenly  star  ? 

"  Weak  cottage  where  our  souls  reside  ! 

This  flesh  a  tottering  wall ! 
With  frightful  breaches  gaping  wide, 

The  building  bends  to  fall. 

"  All  round  it  storms  of  trouble  blow, 

And  waves  of  sorrow  roll ; 
Cold  waves  and  winter  storms  beat  through, 

And  pain  the  tenant -soul. 

"  Alas,  how  frail  our  state  ! "  said  I, 

And  thus  went  mourning  on  ; 
Till  sudden  from  the  cleaving  sky 

A  gleam  of  glory  shone. 

My  soul  all  felt  the  glory  come, 
And  breathed  her  native  air  ; 
Then  she  remembered  heaven  her  home, 
And  she  a  prisoner  here. 
24* 


282  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Straight  she  began  to  change  her  key ; 

And,  joyful  in  her  pains, 
She  sang  the  frailty  of  her  clay 

In  pleasurable  strains. 

"  How  weak  the  prison  is  where  I  dwell ! 

Flesh  but  a  tottering  wall ! 
The  breaches  cheerfully  foretell 

The  house  must  shortly  fall. 

"  No  more,  my  friends,  shall  I  complain, 

Though  all  my  heart-strings  ache ; 
Welcome  disease,  and  every  pain 

That  makes  the  cottage  shake  ! 

"  Now  let  the  tempest  blow  all  round, 

Now  swell  the  surges  high, 
And  beat  this  house  of  bondage  down 

To  let  the  stranger  fly  ! 

"  I  have  a  mansion  built  above 

By  the  eternal  hand ; 
And  should  the  earth's  old  basis  move, 

My  heavenly  house  must  stand. 

"  Yes,  for  'tis  there  my  Saviour  reigns — 

I  long  to  see  the  God — 
And  his  immortal  strength  sustains 

The  courts  that  cost  him  blood. 

"  Hark  !  from  on  high  my  Saviour  calls : 

I  come,  my  Lord,  my  Love  ! 
Devotion  breaks  the  prison-walls, 

And  speeds  my  last  remove. " 

His  psalms  and  hymns  are  immeasurably  better 
than  his  lyrics.  Dreadful  some  of  them  are ;  and 
I  doubt  if  there  is  one  from  which  we  would  not 
wish  stanzas,  lines,  and  words  absent.  But  some  are 
very  fine.  The  man  who  could  write  such  verses  as 
these  ought  not  to  have  written  as  he  has  written  : — 


DR.  THOMAS  PARNELL.  283 


Had  I  a  glance  of  thee,  my  God, 

Kingdoms  and  men  would  vanish  soon ; 

Vanish  as  though  I  saw  them  not, 
As  a  dim  candle  dies  at  noon. 

Then  they  might  fight  and  rage  and  rave  : 
I  should  perceive  the  noise  no  more 

Than  we  can  hear  a  shaking  leaf 

While  rattling  thunders  round  us  roar. 


Some  of  his  hymns  will  be  sung,  I  fancy,  so  long 
as  men  praise  God  together ;  for  most  heartily  do 
I  grant  that  of  all  hymns  I  know  he  has  produced 
the  best  for  public  use  ;  but  these  bear  a  very  small 
proportion  indeed  to  the  mass  of  his  labour.  We 
cannot  help  wishing  that  he  had  written  about  the 
twentieth  part.  We  could  not  have  too  much  of  his 
best,  such  as  this  : 

Be  earth  with  all  her  scenes  withdrawn ; 

Let  noise  and  vanity  begone : 

In  secret  silence  of  the  mind 

My  heaven,  and  there  my  God,  I  find ; 

but  there  is  no  occasion  for  the  best  to  be  so  plentiful : 
a  little  of  it  will  go  a  great  way.  And  as  our  best 
moments  are  so  few,  how  could  any  man  write  six 
hundred  religious  poems,  and  produce  quality  in 
proportion  to  quantity  save  in  an  inverse  ratio  ? 

Dr.  Thomas  Parnell,  the  well-known  poet,  a  clergy- 
man, born  in  Dublin  in  1679,  has  written  a  few 
religious  verses.  The  following  have  a  certain  touch 
of  imagination  and  consequent  grace,  which  distin- 
guishes them  above  the  swampy  level  of  the  time. 


284  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


HYMN  FOR  EVENING. 

The  beam-repelling  mists  arise, 
And  evening  spreads  obscurer  skies ; 
The  twilight  will  the  night  forerun, 
And  night  itself  be  soon  begun. 
Upon  thy  knees  devoutly  bow, 
And  pray  the  Lord  of  glory  now 
To  fill  thy  breast,  or  deadly  sin 
May  cause  a  blinder  night  within. 
And  whether  pleasing  vapours  rise, 
Which  gently  dim  the  closing  eyes, 
Which  make  the  weary  members  blest 
With  sweet  refreshment  in  their  rest ; 
Or  whether  spirits x  in  the  brain 
Dispel  their  soft  embrace  again, 
And  on  my  watchful  bed  I  stay, 
Forsook  by  sleep,  and  waiting  day ; 
Be  God  for  ever  in  my  view, 
And  never  he  forsake  me  too ; 
But  still  as  day  concludes  in  night, 
To  break  again  with  new-born  light, 
.  His  wondrous  bounty  let  me  find 
With  still  a  more  enlightened  mind. 

*  *  *  * 

Thou  that  hast  thy  palace  far 
Above  the  moon  and  every  star ; 
Thou  that  sittest  on  a  throne 
To  which  the  night  was  never  known, 
Regard  my  voice,  and  make  me  blest 
By  kindly  granting  its  request. 
If  thoughts  on  thee  my  soul  employ, 
My  darkness  will  afford  me  joy, 
Till  thou  shalt  call  and  I  shall  soar, 
And  part  with  darkness  evermore. 

Many  long  and  elaborate  religious  poems  I  have 
not  even  mentioned,  because  I  cannot  favour  extracts, 

1  The  animal  spirits  of  the  old  physiologists. 


POPE'S  UNIVERSAL  PRA  YER.  285 

especially  in  heroic  couplets  or  blank  verse.  They 
would  only  make  my  book  heavy,  and  destroy  the 
song-idea.  I  must  here  pass  by  one  of  the  best  of 
such  poems,  The  Complaint,  or  Night  Thoughts  of 
Dr.  Young ;  nor  is  there  anything  else  of  his  I  care 
to  quote. 

I  must  give  just  one  poem  of  Pope,  born  in  1688, 
the  year  of  the  Revolution.  The  flamboyant  style  of 
his  Messiah  is  to  me  detestable :  nothing  can  be  more 
unlike  the  simplicity  of  Christianity.  All  such,  equally 
with  those  by  whatever  hand  that  would  be  religious 
by  being  miserable,  I  reject  at  once,  along  with  all 
that  are  merely  commonplace  religious  exercises.  But 
this  at  least  is  very  unlike  the  rest  of  Pope's  composi- 
tions :  it  is  as  simple  in  utterance  as  it  is  large  in 
scope  and  practical  in  bearing.  The  name  Jove  may 
be  unpleasant  to  some  ears  :  it  is  to  mine — not  because 
it  is  the  name  given  to  their  deity  by  men  who  had 
had  little  outward  revelation,  but  because  of  the  asso- 
ciations which  the  wanton  poets,  not  the  good  philo- 
sophers, have  gathered  about  it.  Here  let  it  stand,  as 
Pope  meant  it,  for  one  of  the  names  of  the  Unknown 
God. 

THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord ! 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood  ! 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind 


286  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill  j 
And,  binding  Nature  fast  in  Fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will : 

What  Conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do — 
This,  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives, 

Let  me  not  cast  away ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives  : 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 

Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay ; 
If  I  am  wrong,  O  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see : 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am — not  wholly  so, 
Since  quickened  by  thy  breath : — 

O  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 


JOHN  BYROM  OF  MANCHESTER.  287 

This  day,  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot : 

All  else  beneath  the  sun 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 

Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies, 
One  chorus  let  all  being  raise  ! 

All  Nature's  incense  rise  ! 

And  now  we  come  upon  a  strange  little  well  in  the 
desert.  Few  flowers  indeed  shine  upon  its  brink,  and 
it  flows  with  a  somewhat  unmusical  ripple  :  it  is  a 
well  of  the  water  of  life  notwithstanding-,  for  its  son^ 
tells  of  the  love  and  truth  which  are  the  grand  power 
of  God. 

John  Byrom,  born  in  Manchester  in  the  year  1 691, 
a  man  whose  strength  of  thought  and  perception  of 
truth  greatly  surpassed  his  poetic  gifts,  yet  delighted 
so  entirely  in  the  poetic  form  that  he  wrote  much  and 
chiefly  in  it.  After  leaving  Cambridge,  he  gained  his 
livelihood  for  some  time  by  teaching  a  shorthand  of 
his  own  invention,  but  was  so  distinguished  as  a  man 
of  learning  generally  that  he  was  chosen  an  F.R.S.  in 
1723.  Coming  under  the  influence,  probably  through 
William  Law,  of  the  writings  of  Jacob  Bohme,  the 
marvellous  shoemaker  of  Gorlitz  in  Silesia,  who  lived 
in  the  time  of  our  Shakspere,  and  heartily  adopting 
many  of  his  views,  he  has  left  us  a  number  of 
religious  poems,  which  are  seldom  so  sweet  in  music 
as  they  are  profound  in  the  metaphysics  of  religion. 
Here  we  have  yet  again  a  mystical  thread  running 
radiant  athwart  both  warp  and  woof  of  our  poetic  web  : 
the  mystical  thinker  will  ever  be  found  the  reviver  of 


288  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

religious  poetry  ;  and  although  some  of  the  seed  had 

come  from  afar  both  in  time  and  space,  Byrom's  verse 

is  of  indigenous  growth.     Much  of  the  thought  of  the 

present  day  will  be  found  in  his  verses.     Here  is  a 

specimen  of  his  metrical  argumentation.     It  is  taken 

from  a  series  of  Meditations  for  every  Day  in  Passion 

Week. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Christ  satisfieth  the  justice  of  God  by  fulfilling  all  righteousness. 
Justice  demandeth  satisfaction — yes  ; 
And  ought  to  have  it  where  injustice  is  : 
But  there  is  none  in  God— it  cannot  mean 
Demand  of  justice  where  it  has  full  reign  : 
To  dwell  in  man  it  rightfully  demands, 
Such  as  he  came  from  his  Creator's  hands. 

Man  had  departed  from  a  righteous  state, 
Which  he  at  first  must  have,  if  God  create : 
'Tis  therefore  called  God's  righteousness,  and  must 
Be  satisfied  by  man's  becoming  just ; 
Must  exercise  good  vengeance  upon  men, 
Till  it  regain  its  rights  in  them  again. 

This  was  the  justice  for  which  Christ  became 

A  man  to  satisfy  its  righteous  claim ; 

Became  Redeemer  of  the  human  race, 

That  sin  in  them  to  justice  might  give  place  : 

To  satisfy  a  just  and  righteous  will, 

Is  neither  more  nor  less  than  to  fulfil. 
*  *  *  * 

Here   are   two  stanzas   of  one   of  more  mystical 
reflection : 

A  PENITENTIAL  SOLILOQUY. 
What  though  no  objects  strike  upon  the  sight ! 
Thy  sacred  presence  is  an  inward  light. 
What  though  no  sounds  shall  penetrate  the  ear  ! 
To  listening  thought  the  voice  of  truth  is  clear. 
Sincere  devotion  needs  no  outward  shrine  ; 
The  centre  of  an  humble  soul  is  thine. 


THE  SO  UL  'S  GRA  VITA  TION.  289 


There  may  I  worship  !  and  there  mayst  thou  place 

Thy  seat  of  mercy,  and  thy  throne  of  grace  ! 

Yea,  fix,  if  Christ  my  advocate  appear, 

The  dread  tribunal  of  thy  justice  there  ! 

Let  eash  vain  thought,  let  each  impure  desire 

Meet  in  thy  wrath  with  a  consuming  fire. 

And  here  are  two  of  more  lyrical  favour. 

THE  SOUL'S  TENDENCY  TOWARDS  ITS  TRUE  CENTRE. 

Stones  towards  the  earth  descend ; 

Rivers  to  the  ocean  roll ; 
Every  motion  has  some  end  : 

What  is  thine,  beloved  soul  ? 

"  Mine  is,  where  my  Saviour  is; 

There  with  him  I  hope  to  dwell : 
Jem  is  the  central  bliss  ; 

Love  the  force  that  doth  impel." 

Truly  thou  hast  answered  right  : 
Now  may  heaven's  attractive  grace 

Towards  the  source  of  thy  delight 
Speed  along  thy  quickening  pace  ! 

"  Thank  thee  for  thy  generous  care  : 
Heaven,  that  did  the  wish  inspire, 

Through  thy  instrumental  prayer, 
Plumes  the  wings  of  my  desire. 

"  Now,  methinks,  aloft  I  fly ; 

Now  with  angels  bear  a  part : 
Glory  be  to  God  on  high  ! 

Peace  to  every  Christian  heart ! " 

THE  ANSWER  TO  THE  DESPONDING  SOUL. 

Cheer  up,  desponding  soul ; 

Thy  longing  pleased  I  see  : 
'Tis  part  of  that  great  whole 

Wherewith  I  longed  for  thee. 

25  U 


290  ENGLAND 'S  AN  TIP  HON 

Wherewith  I  longed  for  thee, 

And  left  my  Father's  throne, 
From  death  to  set  thee  free, 

To  claim  thee  for  my  own. 

To  claim  thee  for  my  own, 

I  suffered  on  the  cross  : . 
O  !  were  my  love  but  known, 

No  soul  could  fear  its  loss. 

No  soul  could  fear  its  loss, 

But,  filled  with  love  divine, 
Would  die  on  its  own  cross, 

And  rise  for  ever  mine. 

Surely  there  is  poetry  as  well  as  truth  in  this.  But, 
certainly  in  general,  his  thought  is  far  in  excess  of 
his  poetry. 

Here   are  a  few  verses   which   I   shall   once  more 
entitle 

DIVINE  EPIGRAMS. 

With  peaceful  mind  thy  race  of  duty  run 

God  nothing  does,  or  suffers  to  be  done, 

But  what  thou  wouldst  thyself,  if  thou  couldst  see 

Through  all  events  of  things  as  well  as  he. 


Think,  and  be  careful  what  thou  art  within, 
For  there  is  sin  in  the  desire  of  sin  : 
Think  and  be  thankful,  in  a  different  case, 
For  there  is  grace  in  the  desire  of  grace. 


An  heated  fancy  or  imagination 
May  be  mistaken  for  an  inspiration; 
True;  but  is  this  conclusion  fair  to  make 
That  inspiration  must  be  all  mistake  ? 
A  pebble-stone  is  not  a  diamond  :  true  ; 
But  must  a  diamond  be  a  pebble  too  ? 


BYROM:  DIVINE  EPIGRAMS.  291 


To  own  a  God  who  does  not  speak  to  men, 
Is  first  to  own,  and  then  disown  again  ; 
Of  all  idolatry  the  total  sum 
Is  having  gods  that  are  both  deaf  and  dumb. 


What  is  more  tender  than  a  mother's  love 

To  the  sweet  infant  fondling  in  her  arms  ? 
What  arguments  need  her  compassion  move 
To  hear  its  cries,  and  help  it  in  its  harms  ? 
Now,  if  the  tenderest  mother  were  possessed 
Of  all  the  love  within  her  single  breast 
Of  all  the  mothers  since  the  world  began, 
'Tis  nothing  to  the  love  of  God  to  man. 


Faith,  Hope,  and  Love  were  questioned  what  they  thought 

Of  future  glory  which  Religion  taught : 

Now  Faith  believed  it  firmly  to  be  true, 

And  Hope  expected  so  to  find  it  too  : 

Love  answered,  smiling  with  a  conscious  glow, 

*'  Believe  ?    Expect  ?    I  know  it  to  be  so." 


V  2 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE   ROOTS   OF  THE   HILLS. 


In  the  poems  of  James  Thomson,  we  find  two 
hymns  to  the  God  of  Creation — one  in  blank  verse, 
the  other  in  stanzas.  They  are  of  the  kind  which 
from  him  we  should  look  for.  The  one  in  blank  verse, 
which  is  as  an  epilogue  to  his  great  poem,  The 
Seasons,  I  prefer. 

We  owe  much  to  Thomson.  Born  (in  Scotland) 
in  the  year  1700,  he  is  the  leading  priest  in  a  solemn 
procession  to  find  God — not  in  the  laws  by  which  he 
has  ordered  his  creation,  but  in  the  beauty  which  is  the 
outcome  of  those  laws.  I  do  not  say  there  is  much 
of  the  relation  of  man  to  nature  in  his  writing  ;  but 
thitherward  it  tends.  He  is  true  about  the  outsides 
of  God  ;  and  in  Thomson  we  begin  to  feel  that  the 
revelation  of  God  as  meaning  and  therefore  being  the 
loveliness  of  nature,  is  about  to  be  recognized.  I  do 
not  say — to  change  my  simile — that  he  is  the  first 
visible  root  in  our  literature  whence  we  can  follow  the 
outburst  of  the  flowers  and  foliage  of  our  delight  in 
nature :  I  could  show  a  hundred  fibres  leading  from 
the  depths  of  our  old  literature  up  to  the  great  root. 


JAMES  THOMSON:  HIS  HYMN.  293 

Nor  is  it  surprising  that,  with  his  age  about  him,  he 
too  should  be  found  tending  to  magnify,  not  God's 
Word,  but  his  works,  above  all  his  name  :  we  have 
beauty  for  loveliness  ;  beneficence  for  tenderness.  I 
have  wondered  whether  one  great  part  of  Napoleon's 
mission  was  not  to  wake  people  from  this  idolatry  of 
the  power  of  God  to  the  adoration  of  his  love. 

The  Hymn  holds  a  kind  of  middle  place  between 
the  Morning  Hymn  in  the  5  th  Book  of  the  Paradise 
Lost  and  the  Hymn  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni.  It 
would  be  interesting  and  instructive  to  compare  the 
three ;  but  we  have  not  time.  Thomson  has  been 
influenced  by  Milton,  and  Coleridge  by  both.  We 
have  delight  in  Milton ;  art  in  Thomson;  heart,  in- 
cluding both,  in  Coleridge. 

hVmn. 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields  ;  the  softening  air  is  balm ; 
Echo  the  mountains  round ;  the  forest  smiles ; 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  Summer  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks, 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow- whispering  gales.1 


1  In  the  following  five  lines  I  have  adopted  the  reading  of  the  first 
edition,  which,  although  a  little  florid,  I  prefer  to  the  scanty  two  lines 
of  the  later. 

25* 


294  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON 


A  yellow-floating  pomp,  thy  bounty  shines 

In  Autumn  unconfined.     Thrown  from  thy  lap, 

Profuse  o'er  nature,  falls  the  lucid  shower 

Of  beamy  fruits ;  and,  in  a  radiant  stream, 

Into  the  stores  of  sterile  Winter  pours. 

In  winter  awful  thou  !  with  clouds  and  storms 

Around  thee  thrown — tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled. 

Majestic  darkness  !  on  the  whirlwind's  wing 

Riding  sublime,  thou  bidst  the  world  adore, x 

And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 

Mysterious  round !  what  skill,  what  force  divine 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear  !  a  simple  train, 
Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ! 
Shade  unperceived  so  softening  into  shade  ! 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole, 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
•  •  *  * 

Nature  attend  !     Join,  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky — 
In  adoration  join ;  and,  ardent,  raise 
One  general  song  !     To  him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes ; 
Oh !  talk  of  him  in  solitary  glooms, 
Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe  ; 
And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 
Who  shake  the  astonished  world,  lift  high  to  heaven 
The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune, — ye  trembling  rills, 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound  ; 
Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 
Along  the  vale ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 
Sound  his  stupendous  praise,  whose  greater  voice 
Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 

i  False  in  feeling,  nor  like  God  at  all,  although  a  ready  pagan  repre- 
sentation of  him.  There  is  much  of  the  pagan  left  in  many  Christians 
--poets  too. 


SIGNS  OF  A  COMING  DA  WN  295 

Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 
In  mingled  clouds  to  him  whose  sun  exalts, 
Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil  paints. 
Ye  forests,  bend,  ye  harvests,  wave  to  him ; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart, 
As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 

*  *  *  * 

Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills  !  ye  mossy  rocks. 
Retain  the  sound  ;  the  broad  responsive  low, 
Ye  valleys  raise  ;  for  the  great  Shepherd  reigns, 
And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 

*  *  *  * 

Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles, 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all, 
Crown  the  great  hymn  !  in  swarming  cities  vast, 
Assembled  men,  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The  long-resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear, 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  base ; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardour  rise  to  heaven. 


Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes, 
Rivers  unknown  to  song,  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles,  'tis  nought  to  me, 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full; 
And  where  he  vital  breathes  there  must  be  joy. 


The  worship  of  intellectual  power  in  laws  and 
inventions  is  the  main  delight  of  the  song  ;  not  the 
living  presence  of  creative  love,  which  never  sings  its 
own  praises,  but  spends  itself  in  giving.  Still,  although 
there  has  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  world  of 
song,  although  the  fervour  of  childlike  worship  has 
vanished  for  a  season,  there  are  signs  in  these  verses 


296  ENGLAND 'S  ANTIPHON. 

of  a  new  dawn  of  devotion.  Even  the  exclusive  and 
therefore  blind  worship  of  science  will,  when  it  has 
turned  the  coil  of  the  ascending  spiral,  result  in  a  new 
song  to  "  him  that  made  heaven  and  earth  and  the 
sea  and  the  fountains  of  waters."  But  first,  for  a  long 
time,  the  worship  of  power  will  go  on.  There  is  one 
sonnet  by  Kirke  White,  eighty-five  years  younger 
than  Thomson,  which  is  quite  pagan  in  its  mode  of 
glorifying  the  power- of  the  Deity. 

But  about  the  same  time  when  Thomson's  Seasons 
was  published,  which  was  in  1730,  the  third  year  of 
George  II.,  that  life  which  had  burned  on  in  the 
hidden  corners  of  the  church  in  spite  of  the  world- 
liness  and  sensuality  of  its  rulers,  began  to  show  a 
flame  destined  to  enlarge  and  spread  until  it  should 
have  lighted  up  the  mass  with  an  outburst  of  Chris- 
tian faith  and  hope.  I  refer  to  the  movement  called 
Methodism,  in  the  midst  of  which,  at  an  early  stage  of 
its  history,  arose  the  directing  energies  of  John  Wesley, 
a  man  sent  of  God  to  deepen  at  once  and  purify  its 
motive  influences.  What  he  and  his  friends  taught, 
would,  1  presume,  in  its  essence,  amount  mainly  to 
this :  that  acquiescence  in  the  doctrines  of  the  church 
is  no  fulfilment  of  duty — or  anything,  indeed,  short  of 
an  obedient  recognition  of  personal  relation  to  God, 
who  has  sent  every  man  the  message  of  present 
salvation  in  his  Son.  A  new  life  began  to  bud 
and  blossom  from  the  dry  stem  of  the  church. 
The  spirit  moved  upon  the  waters  of  feeling,  and 
the  new  undulation  broke  on  the  shores  of  thought 
in  an  outburst  of  new  song.     For  while  John  Wesley 


CHARLES  WESLEY:  WRESTLING  JACOB.    297 

roused   the  hearts  of  the  people  to  sing,  his  brother 
Charles  put  songs  in  their  mouths. 

I  do  not  say  that  many  of  these  songs  possess 
much  literary  merit,  but  many  of  them  are  real  lyrics  : 
they  have  that  essential  element,  song,  in  them.  The 
following,  however,  is  a  very  fine  poem.  That  certain 
expressions  in  it  may  not  seem  offensive,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  keep  the  allegory  of  Jacob  and  the  Angel  in 
full  view  —  even  better  in  view,  perhaps,  than  the 
writer  does  himself. 

WRESTLING  JACOB. 

Come,  O  thou  traveller  unknown, 
Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  see  I 

My  company  before  is  gone, 
And  I  am  left  alone  with  thee! 

With  thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay, 

And  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day  ! 

I  need  not  tell  thee  who  I  am, 

My  misery  or  sin  declare ; 
Thyself  hast  called  me  by  my  name : 

Look  on  my  hands,  and  read  it  there  ! 
But  who,  I  ask  thee,  who  art  thou  ? 
Tell  me  thy  name,  and  tell  me  now. 

In  vain  thou  strugglest  to  get  free  : 

I  never  will  unloose  my  hold. 
Art  thou  the  man  that  died  for  me  ? 

The  secret  of  thy  love  unfold. 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 
*  *  * 

What  though  my  sinking  flesh  complain, 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long  ! 


298  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

I  rise  superior  to  my  pain  : 

When  I  am  weak,  then  I  am  strong ; 
And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail, 
I  shall  with  the  God-man  prevail. 

My  strength  is  gone  ;  my  nature  dies ; 

I  sink  beneath  thy  weighty  hand : 
Faint  to  revive,  and  fall  to  rise ; 

I  fall,  and  yet  by  faith  I  stand — 
I  stand,  and  will  not  let  thee  go 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak, 
But  confident  in  self-despair  ; 

Speak  to  my  heart,  in  blessings  speak  ; 
Be  conquered  by  my  instant1  prayer.  ■ 

Speak,  or  thou  never  hence  shalt  move, 

And  tell  me  if  thy  name  is  Love. 

;Tis  Love !  'tis  Love  !    Thou  diedst  for  me  ! 

I  hear  thy  whisper  in  my  heart ! 
The  morning  breaks ;  the  shadows  flee : 

Pure  universal  Love  thou  art !  -k 
To  me,  to  all,  thy  bowels  move: 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love ! 

My  prayer  hath  power  with  God ;  the  grace 
Unspeakable  I  now  receive  ; 

Through  faith  I  see  thee  face  to  face — 
*"^I  see  thee  face  to  face,  and  live : 
*In  vain  I  have  not  wept  and  strove ; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

I  know  thee,  Saviour — who  thou  art — 
Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner's  friend !  4 

Nor  wilt  thou  with  the  night  depart, 
But  stay  and  love  me  to  the  end  ! 

Thy  mercies  never  shall  remove : 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love  ! 
*  *  * 

Contented  now,  upon  my  thigh 
I  halt  till  life's  short  journey  end'; 

1  Insisting— persistent. 


WILLIAM  COW  PER.  299 

All  helplessness,  all  weakness,  I 

On  thee  alone  for  strength  depend ; 
Nor  have  I  power  from  thee  to  move  : 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Lame  as  I  am,  I  take  the  prey ; 

Hell,  earth,  and  sin,  with  ease  o'ercome; 
I  leap  for  joy,  pursue  my  way, 

And  as  a  bounding  hart  fly  home ; 
Through  all  eternity  to  prove 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  art  with  which  his  very 
difficult  end  in  the  management  of  the  allegory  is 
reached,  is  admirable.      I  have  omitted  three  stanzas. 

I  cannot  give  much  from  William  Cowper.  His 
poems  —  graceful  always,  and  often  devout  even 
when  playful — have  few  amongst  them  that  are  ex- 
pressly religious,  while  the  best  of  his  hymns  are 
known  to  every  reader  of  such.  Born  in  173 1,  he 
was  greatly  influenced  by  the  narrow  theology  that 
prevailed  in  his  circle  ;  and  most  of  his  hymns  are 
marred  by  the  exclusiveness  which  belonged  to  the 
system  and  not  to  the  man.  There  is  little  of  it  in 
the  following : — 

Far  from  the  world,  O  Lord,  I  flee, 

From  strife  and  tumult  far ; 
From  scenes  where  Satan  wages  still 
j  His  most  successful  war. 

The  calm  retreat,  the  silent  shade, 

With  prayer  and  praise  agree, 
And  seem  by  thy  sweet  bounty  made 

For  those  who  follow  thee. 

There  if  thy  spirit  touch  the  soul, 

And  grace  her  mean  abode, 
Oh  with  what  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 

She  communes  with  her  God  ! 


300  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

There,  like  the  nightingale,  she  pours 

Her  solitary  lays, 
Nor  asks  a  witness  of  her  song, 

Nor  thirsts  for  human  praise. 

Author  and  guardian  of  my  life,  1 

Sweet  source  of  light  divine, 
And — all  harmonious  names  in  one — 

My  Saviour,  thou  art  mine! 

What  thanks  I  owe  thee,  and  what  love — 

A  boundless,  endless  store — 
Shall  echo  through  the  realms  above 

When  time  shall  be  no  more. 

Sad  as  was  Cowper's  history,  with  the  vapours  of  a 
low  insanity,  if  not  always  filling  his  garden,  yet  ever 
brooding  on  the  hill-tops  of  his  horizon,  he  was,  through 
his  faith  in  God,  however  darkened  by  the  introver- 
sions of  a  neat,  poverty-stricken  theology,  yet  able  to 
lead  his  life  to  the  end.  It  is  delightful  to  discover 
that,  when  science,  which  is  the  anatomy  of  nature, 
had  poisoned  the  theology  of  the  country,  in  creat- 
ing a  demand  for  clean-cut  theory  in  infinite  affairs, 
the  loveliness  and  truth  of  the  countenance  of  living 
nature  could  calm  the  mind  which  this  theology  had 
irritated  to  the  very  borders  of  madness,  and  give  a 
peace  and  hope  which  the  man  was  altogether  right 
in  attributing  to  the  Spirit  of  God.  How  many  have 
been  thus  comforted,  who  knew  not,  like  Wordsworth, 
the  immediate  channel  of  their  comfort  ;  or  even, 
with  Cowper,  recognized  its  source  !  God  gives  while 
men  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE   NEW   VISION. 

William  Blake,  the  painter  of  many  strange  and 
fantastic  but  often  powerful — sometimes  very  beau- 
tiful pictures — wrote  poems  of  an  equally  remarkable 
kind.  Some  of  them  are  as  lovely  as  they  are  care- 
less, while  many  present  a  curious  contrast  in  the 
apparent  incoherence  of  the  simplest  language.  He 
was  born  in  1757,  towards  the  close  of  the  reign  of 
George  II.  Possibly  if  he  had  been  sent  to  an  age 
more  capable  of  understanding  him,  his  genius  would 
not  have  been  tempted  to  utter  itself  with  such  a  wild- 
ness  as  appears  to  indicate  hopeless  indifference  to 
being  understood.  We  cannot  tell  sometimes  whether 
to  attribute  the  bewilderment  the  poems  cause  in  us 
to  a  mysticism  run  wild,  or  to  regard  it  as  the  reflex 
of  madness  in  the  writer.  Here  is  a  lyrical  gem, 
however,  although  not  cut  with  mathematical  pre- 
cision. 

DAYBREAK. 

To  find  the  western  path, 

Right  through  the  gates  of  wrath 

I  urge  my  way  ; 
Sweet  morning  leads  me  on  : 
With  soft  repentant  moan, 

I  see  the  break  of  day 
26 


302  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

The  war  of  swords  and  spears, 
Melted  by  dewy  tears, 

Exhales  on  high ; 
The  sun  is  freed  from  fears, 
And  with  soft  grateful  tears, 

Ascends  the  sky. 

The  following  is  full  of  truth  most  quaintly  ex- 
pressed, with  a  homeliness  of  phrase  quite  delicious. 
It  is  one  of  the  Songs  of  Innocence,  published,  as  we 
learn  from  Gilchrist's  Life  of  Blake,  in  the  year  1789. 
They  were  engraved  on  copper  with  illustrations  by 
Blake,  and  printed  and  bound  by  his  wife.  When 
we  consider  them  in  respect  of  the  time  when  they 
were  produced,  we  find  them  marvellous  for  their 
originality  and  simplicity. 

ON  ANOTHER'S  SORROW. 
Can  I  see  another's  woe, 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief  ? 
Can  I  see  a  falling  tear, 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share  ? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filled  ? 
Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear? 
No,  no ;  never  can  it  be  ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be ! 
And  can  he,  who  smiles  on  all, 
Hear  the  wren,  with  sorrows  small — 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear, 
And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  pity  in  their  breast  ? 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near, 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear  ? 


THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  303 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away? 
Oh,  no  !  never  can  it  be ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be ! 

He  doth  give  his  joy  to  all ; 
He  becomes  an  infant  small; 
He  becomes  a  man  of  woe ; 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by ; 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

Oh  !  he  gives  to  us  his  joy, 
That  our  grief  he  may  destroy : 
Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone, 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 

There  is  our  mystic  yet  again  leading  the  way. 

A  supreme  regard  for  science,  and  the  worship  of 
power,  go  hand  in  hand :  that  knowledge  is  power 
has  been  esteemed  the  grandest  incitement  to  study. 
Yet  the  antidote  to  the  disproportionate  cultivation 
of  science,  is  simply  power  in  its  crude  form — breaking 
out,  that  is,  as  brute  force.  When  science,  isolated 
and  glorified,  has  produced  a  contempt,  not  only  for 
vulgar  errors,  but  for  the  truths  which  are  incapable 
of  scientific  proof,  then,  as  we  see  in  the  French  Revo- 
lution, the  wild  beast  in  man  breaks  from  its  den,  and 
chaos  returns.  But  all  the  noblest  minds  in  Europe 
looked  for  grand  things  in  the  aurora  of  this  uprising 
of  the  people.  To  the  terrible  disappointment  that 
followed,  we  are  indebted  for  the  training  of  Words- 
worth to  the  priesthood  of  nature's  temple.  So  was  he 
possessed  with  the  hope  of  a  coming  deliverance  for 


304  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

the  nations,  that  he  spent  many  months  in  France 
during  the  Revolution.  At  length  he  was  forced  to 
seek  safety  at  home.  Dejected  even  to  hopelessness 
for  a  time,  he  believed  in  nothing.  How  could  there 
be  a  God  that  ruled  in  the  earth  when  such  a  rising 
sun  of  promise  was  permitted  to  set  in  such  a  sea ! 
But  for  man  to  worship  himself  is  a  far  more  terrible 
thing  than  that  blood  should  flow  like  water  :  the 
righteous  plague  of  God  allowed  things  to  go  as  they 
would  for  a  time.  But  the  power  of  God  came  upon 
Wordsworth — I  cannot  say  as  it  had  never  come 
before,  but  with  an  added  insight  which  made  him 
recognize  in  the  fresh  gift  all  that  he  had  known  and 
felt  of  such  in  the  past.  To  him,  as  to  Cowper,  the 
benignities  of  nature  restored  peace  and  calmness 
and  hope — sufficient  to  enable  him  to  look  back  and 
gather  wisdom.  He  was  first  troubled,  then  quieted, 
and  then  taught.  Such  presence  of  the  Father  has 
been  an  infinitely  more  active  power  in  the  redemp- 
tion of  men  than  men  have  yet  become  capable  of 
perceiving.  The  divine  expressions  of  Nature,  that 
is,  the  face  of  the  Father  therein  visible,  began  to  heal 
the  plague  which  the  worship  of  knowledge  had  bred. 
And  the  power  of  her  teaching  grew  from  comfort 
to  prayer,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  poem  I  shall  give. 
Higher  than  all  that  Nature  can  do  in  the  way  of  di- 
rect lessoning,  is  the  production  of  such  holy  moods 
as  result  in  hope,  conscience  of  duty,  and  supplication. 
Those  who  have  never  felt  it  have  to  be  told  there 
is  in  her  such  a  power — yielding  to  which,  the  meek 
inherit  the  earth. 


NA  TURE  'S  BEST  I  NFL  UENCE.  305 

NINTH  EVENING  VOLUNTARY.       ! 
Composed  upon  an  evening  of  extraordinary  spkndour  and  beauty. 


Had  this  effulgence  disappeared 

With  flying  haste,  I  might  have  sent 

Among  the  speechless  clouds  a  look 

Of  blank  astonishment ; 

But  'tis  endued  with  power  to  stay, 

And  sanctify  one  closing  day, 

That  frail  Mortality  may  see — 

What  is? — ah  no,  but  what  can  be! 

Time  was  when  field  and  watery  cove 

With  modulated  echoes  rang, 

While  choirs  of  fervent  angels  sang 

Their  vespers  in  the  grove ; 

Or,  crowning,  star-like,  each  some  sovereign  height, 

Warbled,  for  heaven  above  and  earth  below, 

Strains  suitable  to  both. — Such  holy  rite, 

Methinks,  if  audibly  repeated  now 

From  hill  or  valley  could  not  move 

Sublimer  transport,  purer  love, 

Than  doth  this  silent  spectacle — the  gleam — 

The  shadow — and  the  peace  supreme ! 


No  sound  is  uttered,  — but  a  deep 
And  solemn  harmony  pervades 
The  hollow  vale*from  steep  to  steep, 
And  penetrates  the  glades. 
Far  distant  images  draw  nigh, 
Called  forth  by  wondrous  potency 
Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues 
Whate'er  it  strikes  with  gem-like  hues. 
In  vision  exquisitely  clear, 
Herds  range  along  the  mountain  side, 
And  glistening  antlers  are  descried, 
And  gilded  flocks  appear. 
26*  X 


y>6  ENGLAND  >S  ANTIPHON. 


Thine  is  the  tranquil  hour,  purpureal  Eve ! 
But  long  as  godlike  wish  or  hope  divine 
Informs  my  spirit,  ne'er  can  I  believe 
That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine  ! 
From  worlds  nor  quickened  by  the  sun 
A  portion  of  the  gift  is  won ; 
An  intermingling  of  heaven's  pomp  is  spread 
On  ground  which  British  shepherds  tread  ! 

III. 

And  if  there  be  whom  broken  ties 

Afflict,  or  injuries  assail, 

Yon  hazy  ridges  to  their  eyes 

Present  a  glorious  scale1 

Climbing  suffused  with  sunny  air, 

To  stop — no  record  hath  told  where ; 

And  tempting  Fancy  to  ascend, 

And  with  immortal  spirits  blend ! 

— Wings  at  my  shoulders  seem  to  play ! 

But,  rooted  here,  I  stand  and  gaze 

On  those  bright  steps  that  heavenward  raise 

Their  practicable  way. 

Come  forth,  ye  drooping  old  men,  look  abroad, 

And  see  to  what  fair  countries  ye  are  bound! 

And  if  some  traveller,  weary  of  his  road, 

Hath  slept  since  noontide  on  the  grassy  ground, 

Ye  genii,  to  his  covert  speed, 

And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 

As  may  attune  his  soul  to  meet  the  dower 

Bestowed  on  this  transcendent  hour. 

IV. 

Such  hues  from  their  celestial  urn 
Were  wont  to  stream  before  mine  eye 
Where'er  it  wandered  in  the  morn 
Of  blissful  infancy. 
This  glimpse  of  glory,  why  renewed? 
Nay,  rather  speak  with  gratitude ; 


i  Great  cloudy  ridges,  one  rising  above  the  other,  like  a  grand  stair 
up  to  the  heavens.     See  Wordsworth's  note. 


WORDSWORTH  AND  COLERIDGE.  307 

For,  if  a  vestige  of  those  gleams 

Survived,  'twas  only  in  my  dreams. 

Dread  Power !  whom  peace  and  calmness  serve 

No  less  than  nature's  threatening  voice, 

If  aught  unworthy  be  my  choice, 

From  thee  if  I  would  swerve ; 

Oh,  let  thy  grace  remind  me  of  the  light 

Full  early  lost,  and  fruitlessly  deplored  ; 

Which,  at  this  moment,  on  my  waking  sight 

Appears  to  shine,  by  miracle  restored : 

My  soul,  though  yet  confined  to  earth, 

Rejoices  in  a  second  birth ! 

— 'Tis  past ;  the  visionary  splendour  fades  ; 

And  night  approaches  with  her  shades. 

Although  I  have  mentioned  Wordsworth  before 
Coleridge  because  he  was  two  years  older,  yet  Cole- 
ridge had  much  to  do  with  the  opening  of  Words- 
worth's eyes  to  such  visions  ;  as,  indeed,  more  than 
any  man  in  our  times,  he  has  opened  the  eyes  of  the 
English  people  to  see  wonderful  things.  There  is 
little  of  a  directly  religious  kind  in  his  poetry ;  yet 
we  find  in  him  what  we  miss  in  Wordsworth,  an 
inclined  plane  from  the  revelation  in  nature  to  the 
culminating  revelation  in  the  Son  of  Man.  Some- 
how, I  say,  perhaps  because  we  find  it  in  his  prose,  we 
feel  more  of  this  in  Coleridge's  verse. 

Coleridge  is  a  sage,  and  Wordsworth  is  a  seer  ;  yet 
when  the  sage  sees,  that  is,  when,  like  the  son  of  Beor, 
he  falls  into  a  trance  having  his  eyes  open,  or*  when 
feeling  and  sight  are  one  and  philosophy  is  in  abey- 
ance, the  ecstasy  is  even  loftier  in  Coleridge  than  in 
Wordsworth.  In  their  highest  moods  they  seem 
almost  to  change  places — Wordsworth  to  become 
sage,  and  Coleridge  seer     Perhaps  the  grandest  hymn 

X    2 


308  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

of  praise  which  man,  the  mouth-piece  of  Nature,  utters 
for  her,  is  the  hymn  of  Mont  Blanc. 

HYMN 

Before  sunrise,  in  the  Vale  of  Ckamouni. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 
In  his  steep  course — so  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc  ? 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !  I  gazed  upon  thee 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy ; 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enwrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul !     Not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !     Not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran l  of  the  Vale ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 

1  The  mountain. 


MONT  BLANC  FROM  CHAMOUNI.  309 


And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars,1 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink  ! 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn2 
Co-herald !  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth,3 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
For  ever  shattered,  and  the  same  for  ever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam? 
And  who  commanded — and  the  silence  came — 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest?  * 

Ye  ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! — 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows?     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? — 
God!  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God ! 
God!  sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  gladsome  voice  ! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  I 


1  These  two  lines  are  just  the  symbol  for  the  life  of  their  autho.-. 

2  From  the  rose-light  on  the  snow  of  its  peak. 

3  They  all  flow  from  under  the  glaciers,  fed  by  their  constant  melting. 

4  Turning  for  contrast  to  the  glaciers,  which  he  apostrophizes  in  the 
next  line. 


310  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise. 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose1  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain!  thou 
That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration — upward  from  thy  base 
Slow-travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears — 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapoury  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me !  rise,  O  ever  rise ; 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills  ! 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven ! 
Great  hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

Here  is  one  little  poem  I  think  most  valuable,  both 
from  its  fulness  of  meaning,  and  the  form,  as  clear  as 
condensed,  in  which  that  is  embodied. 

ON  AN  INFANT 

Which,  died  before  baptism. 

"Be  rather  than  be  called  a  child  of  God," 
Death  whispered.     With  assenting  nod, 
Its  head  upon  its  mother's  breast 

The  baby  bowed  without  demur — 
Of  the  kingdom  of  the  blest 

Possessor,  not  inheritor. 

1  Antecedent,  peaks. 


HARTLE Y  COLERIDGE.  31 1 

Next  the  father  let  me  place  the  gifted  son,  Hartley 
Coleridge.  He  was  born  in  1796,  and  died  in  1849. 
Strange,  wayward,  and  in  one  respect  faulty,  as  his 
life  was,  his  poetry — strange,  and  exceedingly  way- 
ward too — is  often  very  lovely.  The  following  sonnet 
is  all  I  can  find  room  for: — 

"  SHE  LOVED  MUCH." 

She  sat  and  wept  beside  his  feet.     The  weight 

Of  sin  oppressed  her  heart ;  for  all  the  blame, 

And  the  poor  malice  of  the  worldly  shame, . 

To  her  was  past,  extinct,  and  out  of  date ; 

Only  the  sin  remained — the  leprous  state. 

She  would  be  melted  by  the  heat  of  love, 

By  fires  far  fiercer  than  are  blown  to  prove 

And  purge  the  silver  ore  adulterate. 

She  sat  and  wept,  and  with  her  untressed  hair 

Still  wiped  the  feet  she  was  so  blest  to  touch; 

And  he  wiped  off  the  soiling  of  despair 

Fr  ^m  her  sweet  soul,  because  she  loved  so  much. 

I  am  a  sinner,  full  of  doubts  and  fears : 

Make  me  a  humble  thing  of  love  and  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  FERVOUR   OF   THE   IMPLICIT.       INSIGHT   OF  THE   HEART. 

THE  late  Dean  Milman,  born  in  1791,  best  known 
by  his  very  valuable  labours  in  history,  may  be  taken 
as  representing  a  class  of  writers  in  whom  the  poetic 
fire  is  ever  on  the  point,  and  only  on  the  point,  of 
breaking  into  a  flame.  His  composition  is  admir- 
able—  refined,  scholarly,  sometimes  rich  and  even 
gorgeous  in  expression — yet  lacking  that  radiance 
of  the  unutterable  to  which  the  loftiest  words  owe 
their  grandest  power.  Perhaps  the  best  representa- 
tive of  his  style  is  the  hymn  on  the  Incarnation,  in 
his  dramatic  poem,  The  Fall  of  Jerusalem.  But  as  an 
extract  it  is  tolerably  known.  I  prefer  giving  one 
from  his  few  Hymns  for  Church  Service. 

EIGHTEENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

When  God  came  down  from  heaven — the  living  God— 
What  signs  and  wonders  marked  his  stately  way? 

Brake  out  the  winds  in  music  where  he  trod? 
Shone  o'er  the  heavens  a  brighter,  softer  day? 

The  dumb  began  to  speak,  the  blind  to  see, 

And  the  lame  leaped,  and  pain  and  paleness  fled ; 

The  mourner's  sunken  eye  grew  bright  with  glee, 
And  from  the  tomb  awoke  the  wondering  dead. 


DEAN  MILMAN:  DR.  KEBLE.  313 

When  God  went  back  to  heaven — the  living  God — 

Rode  he  the  heavens  upon  a  fiery  car? 
Waved  seraph- wings  along  his  glorious  road? 

Stood  still  to  wonder  each  bright  wandering  star? 

Upon  the  cross  he  hung,  and  bowed  his  head, 

And  prayed  for  them  that  smote,  and  them  that  curst ; 

And,  drop  by  drop,  his  slow  life-blood  was  shed, 
And  his  last  hour  of  suffering  was  his  worst. 

Tlie  Christian  Year  of  the  Rev.  John  Keble  (born 
in  1800)  is  perhaps  better  known  in  England  than 
any  other  work  of  similar  church  character.  I  must 
confess  I  have  never  been  able  to  enter  into  the  en- 
thusiasm of  its  admirers.  Excellent,  both  in  regard 
of  their  literary  and  religious  merits,  true  in  feeling 
and  thorough  in  finish,  the  poems  always  remind 
me  of  Berlin  work  in  iron — hard  and  delicate.  Here 
is  a  portion  of  one  of  the  best  of  them. 

ST.  MATTHEW. 

Ye  hermits  blest,  ye  holy  maids, 
The  nearest  heaven  on  earth, 
Who  talk  with  God  in  shadowy  glades, 

Free  from  rude  care  and  mirth; 
To  whom  some  viewless  teacher  brings 
The  secret  lore  of  rural  things, 
The  moral  of  each  fleeting  cloud  and  gale, 
The  whispers  from  above,  that  haunt  the  twilight  vale: 

Say,  when  in  pity  ye  have  gazed 

On  the  wreath'd  smoke  afar, 
That  o'er  some  town,  like  mist  upraised, 

Hung  hiding  sun  and  star; 
Then  as  ye  turned  your  weary  eye 
To  the  green  earth  and  open  sky, 
Were  ye  not  fain  to  doubt  how  Faith  could  dwell 
Amid  that  dreary  glare,  in  this  world's  citadel? 
27 


3H  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON 

But  Love's  a  flower  that  will  not  die 

For  lack  of  leafy  screen, 
And  Christian  Hope  can  cheer  the  eye 

That  ne'er  saw  vernal  green  : 
Then  be  ye  sure  that  Love  can  bless 
Even  in  this  crowded  loneliness, 
Where  ever-moving  myriads  seem  to  say, 
Go — thou  art  nought  to  us,  nor  we  to  thee — away ! 

There  are  in  this  loud  stunning  tide 

Of  human  care  and  crime, 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  the  everlasting  chime ; 
Who  carry  music  in  their  heart 
Through  dusky  lane  and  wrangling  mart, 
Plying  their  daily  task  with  busier  feet, 
Because  their  secret  souls  a  holy  strain  repeat. 

There  are  here  some  indications  of  that  strong  re- 
action of  the  present  century  towards  ancient  forms 
of  church  life.  This  reaction  seems  to  me  a  further 
consequence  of  that  admiration  of  power  of  which  I 
have  spoken.  For,  finding  the  progress  of  discovery 
in  the  laws  of  nature  constantly  bring  an  assurance 
most  satisfactory  to  the  intellect,  men  began  to  de- 
mand a  similar  assurance  in  other  matters  ;  and  what- 
ever department  of  human  thought  could  not  be 
subjected  to  experiment  or  did  not  admit  of  logical 
proof  began  to  be  regarded  with  suspicion.  The 
highest  realms  of  human  thought — where  indeed 
only  grand  conviction,  and  that  the  result  not  of 
research,  but  of  obedience  to  the  voice  within,  can 
be  had — came  to  be  by  such  regarded  as  regions 
where,  no  scientific  assurance  being  procurable,  it 
was  only  to  his  loss  that  a  man  should  go  wander- 
ing :   the  whole   affair  was  unworthy  of  him.     And 


THE  SEARCH  OF  THE  SEEKERS.  315 

if  there  be  no  guide  of  humanity  but  the  intellect, 
and  nothing  worthy  of  its  regard  but  what  that  in- 
tellect can  isolate  and  describe  in  the  forms  peculiar 
to  its  operations, — that  is,  if  a  man  has  relations  to 
nothing  beyond  his  definition,  is  not  a  creature  of 
the  immeasurable, — then  these  men  are  right.  But 
there  have  appeared  along  with  them  other  thinkers 
who  could  not  thus  be  satisfied — men  who  had  in 
their  souls  a  hunger  which  the  neatest  laws  of  nature 
could  not  content,  who  could  not  live  on  chemistry, 
or  mathematics,  or  even  on  geology,  without  the 
primal  law  of  their  many  dim-dawning  wonders — 
that  is,  the  Being,  if  such  there  might  be,  who 
thought  their  laws  first  and  then  embodied  them  in 
a  world  of  aeonian  growth.  These  indeed  seek  law 
likewise,  but  a  perfect  law — a  law  they  can  believe 
perfect  beyond  the  comprehension  of  powers  of  whose 
imperfection  they  are  too  painfully  conscious.  They 
feel  in  their  highest  moments  a  helplessness  that 
drives  them  to  search  after  some  Power  with  a  heart 
deeper  than  his  power,  who  cares  for  the  troubled 
creatures  he  has  made.  But  still  under  the  influence 
of  that  faithless  hunger  for  intellectual  certainty, 
they  look  about  and  divide  into  two  parties :  both 
would  gladly  receive  the  reported  revelation  in  Jesus, 
the  one  if  they  could  have  evidence  enough  from 
without,  the  other  if  they  could  only  get  rid  of  the 
difficulties  it  raises  within.  I  am  aware  that  I  dis- 
tinguish in  the  mass,  and  that  both  sides  would  be 
found  more  or  less  influenced  by  the  same  difficulties 
— but  more  and  less,  and  therefore  thus  classified  by 


316  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

the  driving  predominance.  Those  of  the  one  party, 
then,  finding  no  proof  to  be  had  but  that  in  testimony, 
and  anxious  to  have  all  they  can— delighting  too  in  a 
certain  holy  wilfulness  of  intellectual  self-immolation, 
accept  the  testimony  in  the  mass,  and  become  Roman 
Catholics.  Nor  is  it  difficult  to  see  how  they  then 
find  rest.  It  is  not  the  dogma,  but  the  contact  with 
Christ  the  truth,  with  Christ  the  man,  which  the 
dogma,  in  pacifying  the  troubles  of  the  intellect — 
if  only  by  a  soporific,  has  aided  them  in  reaching, 
that  gives  them  peace :  it  is  the  truth  itself  that 
makes  them  free. 

The  worshippers  of  science  will  themselves  allow, 
that  when  they  cannot  gain  observations  enough  to 
satisfy  them  upon  any  point  in  which  a  law  of  nature 
is  involved,  they  must,  if  possible,  institute  experi- 
ments. I  say  therefore  to  those  whose  observation 
has  not  satisfied  them  concerning  the  phenomenon 
Christianity, — "  Where  is  your  experiment  ?  Why  do 
you  not  thus  try  the  utterance  claiming  to  be  the 
law  of  life  ?  Call  it  a  hypothesis,  and  experiment 
upon  it.  Carry  into  practice,  well  justified  of  your 
conscience,  the  words  which  the  Man  spoke,  for 
therein  he  says  himself  lies  the  possibility  of  your 
acceptance  of  his  mission  ;  and  if,  after  reasonable 
time  thus  spent,  you  are  not  yet  convinced  enough 
to  give  testimony — I  will  not  annoy  you  by  saying 
to  facts,  but — to  conviction,  I  think  neither  will  you 
be  ready  to  abandon  the  continuous  experiment." 
These  Roman  Catholics  have  thus  met  with  Jesus, 
come  into  personal  contact  with  him  :  by  the  doing 


THE  HYMNS  OF  DR.  FABER.  317 

of  what  he  tells  us,  and  by  nothing  else,  are  they 
blessed.  What  if  their  theories  show  to  me  like  a 
burning  of  the  temple  and  a  looking  for  the  god 
in  the  ashes  ?  They  know  in  whom  they  have 
believed.  And  if  some  of  us  think  we  have  a  more 
excellent  way,  we  shall  be  blessed  indeed  if  the 
result  be  no  less  excellent  than  in  such  men  as 
Faber,  Newman,  and  Aubrey  de  Vere.  No  man  needs 
be  afraid  that  to  speak  the  truth  concerning  such 
will  hasten  the  dominance  of  alien  and  oppressive 
powers ;  the  truth  is  free,  and  to  be  just  is  to  be 
strong.  Should  the  time  come*again  when  Liberty  is 
in  danger,  those  who' have  defended  the  truth  even  in 
her  adversaries,  if  such  there  be,  will  be  found  the 
readiest  to  draw  the  sword  for  her,  and,  hating  not, 
yet  smite  for  the  liberty  to  do  even  them  justice.  To 
give  the  justice  we  claim  for  ourselves  is,  if  there  be 
a  Christ,  the  law  of  Christ,  to  obey  which  is  eternally 
better  than  truest  theory. 

I  should  like  to  give  many  of  the  hymns  of  Dr. 
Faber.  Some  of  them  are  grand,  others  very  lovely, 
and  some,  of  course,  to  my  mind  considerably  repul- 
sive. He  seems  to  me  to  go  wrong  nowhere  in 
originating — he  produces  nothing  unworthy  except 
when  he  reproduces  what  he  never  could  have  enter- 
tained but  for  the  pressure  of  acknowledged  authority. 
Even  such  things,  however,  he  has  enclosed  in  pearls, 
as  the  oyster  its  incommoding  sand-grains. 

His  hymn  on  The  Greatness  of  God  is  profound  ; 
that  on  The  Will  of  God  is  very  wise ;  that  to  The 
God  of  my  Childhood  is  full  of  quite  womanly  tender- 

27* 


318  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

ness :  all  are  most  simple  in  speech,  reminding  us  in 
this  respect  of  John  Mason.  In  him,  no  doubt,  as  in 
all  of  his  class,  we  find  traces  of  that  sentimentalism 
in  the  use  of  epithets — small  words,  as  distinguished 
from  homely,  applied  to  great  things — of  which  I 
have  spoken  more  than  once ;  but  criticism  is  not  to 
be  indulged  in  the  reception  of  great  gifts — of  such 
a  gift  as  this,  for  instance  : — 

THE  ETERNITY ;OF  GOD. 

O  Lord  !  my  heart  is  sick, 
Sick  of  this  everlasting  change ; 
And  life  runs  tediously  quick 
Through  its  unresting  race  and  varied  range : 
Change  finds  no  likeness  to  itself  in  Thee, 
And  wakes  no  echo  in  Thy  mute  eternity. 

Dear  Lord  !  my  heart  is  sick 
Of  this  perpetual  lapsing  time, 

So  slow  in  grief,  in  joy  so  quick, 
Yet  ever  casting  shadows  so  sublime: 
Time  of  all  creatures  is  least  like  to  Thee, 
And  yet  it  is  our  share  of  Thine  eternity. 

Oh  change  and  time  are  storms 
For  lives  so  thin  and  frail  as  ours; 

For  change  the  work  of  grace  deforms 
With  love  that  soils,  and  help  that  overpowers; 
And  time  is  strong,  and,  like  some  chafing  sea, 
It  seems  to  fret  the  shores  of  Thine  eternity. 

Weak,  weak,  for  ever  weak ! 
We  cannot  hold  what  we  possess ; 

Youth  cannot  find,  age  will  not  seek, — 
Oh  weakness  is  the  heart's  worst  weariness : 
But  weakest  hearts  can  lift  their  thoughts  to  Thee; 
It  makes  us  strong  to  think  of  Thine  eternity. 


THE  ETERNITY  OF  GOD.  319 


Thou  hadst  no  youth,  great  God  ! 
An  Unbeginning  End  Thou  art ; 

Thy  glory  in  itself  abode, 
And  still  abides  in  its  own  tranquil  heart : 
No  age  can  heap  its  outward  years  on  Thee : 
Dear  God !  Thou  art  Thyself  Thine  own  eternity ! 

Without  an  end  or  bound 
Thy  life  lies  all  outspread  in  light ; 
Our  lives  feel  Thy  life  all  around, 
Making  our  weakness  strong,  our  darkness  bright ; 
Yet  is  it  neither  wilderness  nor  sea, 
But  the  calm  gladness  of  a  full  eternity. 

Oh  Thou  art  very  great 
To  set  Thyself  so  far  above  ! 

But  we  partake  of  Thine  estate, 
Established  in  Thy  strength  and  in  Thy  love: 
That  love  hath  made  eternal  room  for  me 
In  the  sweet  vastness  of  its  own  eternity. 

Oh  Thou  art  very  meek 
To  overshade  Thy  creatures  thus ! 

Thy  grandeur  is  the  shade  we  seek; 
To  be  eternal  is  Thy  use  to  us : 
Ah,  Blessed  God !  what  joy  it  is  to  me 
To  lose  all  thought  of  self  in  Thine  eternity 

Self-wearied,  Lord !  I  come ; 
For  I  have  lived  my  life  too  fast : 

Now  that  years  bring  me  nearer  home 
Grace  must  be  slowly  used  to  make  it  last ; 
When  my  heart  beats  too  quick  I  think  of  Thee, 
And  of  the  leisure  of  Thy  long  eternity. 

Farewell,  vain  joys  of  earth ! 
Farewell,  all  love  that  is  not  His ! 

Dear  God!  be  Thou  my  only  mirth, 
Thy  majesty  my  single  timid  bliss! 
Oh  in  the  bosom  of  eternity 
Thou  dost  not  weary  of  Thyself,  nor  we  of  Thee ! 


320  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

How  easily  his  words  flow,  even  when  he  is  saying 
the  deepest  things  !  The  poem  is  full  of  the  elements 
of  the  finest  mystical  metaphysics,  and  yet  there  is  no 
effort  in  their  expression.  The  tendency  to  find  God 
beyond,  rather  than  in  our  daily  human  conditions, 
is  discernible  ;  but  only  as  a  tendency. 

What  a  pity  that  the  sects  are  so  slow  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  grand  best  in  each  other ! 

I  do  not  find  in  Dr.  Newman  either  a  depth  or  a 
precision  equal  to  that  of  Dr.  Faber.  His  earlier 
poems  indicate  a  less  healthy  condition  of  mind. 
His  Dream  of  Gerontius  is,  however,  a  finer,  as  more 
ambitious  poem  than  any  of  Faber's.  In  my  judg- 
ment there  are  weak  passages  in  it,  with  others  of 
real  grandeur.  But  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  the 
difficulty,  almost  impossibility,  of  doing  justice  to 
men  from  some  of  whose  forms  of  thought  I  am 
greatly  repelled,  who  creep  from  the  sunshine  into 
every  ruined  archway,  attracted  by  the  brilliance 
with  which  the  light  from  its  loophole  glows  in  its 
caverned  gloom,  and  the  hope  of  discovering  within 
it  the  first  steps  of  a  stair  winding  up  into  the  blue 
heaven.  I  apologize  for  the  unavoidable  rudeness 
of  a  critic  who  would  fain  be  honest  if  he  might ; 
and  I  humbly  thank  all  such  as  Dr.  Newman,  whose 
verses,  revealing  their  saintship,  make  us  long  to  be 
holier  men. 

Of  his,  as  of  Faber's,  I  have  room  for  no  more  than 
one.     It  was  written  off  Sardinia. 


DR.  NEWMAN— SIR  AUBREY  DE  VERE.      321 

DESOLATION. 
O  say  not  thou  art  left  of  God, 

Because  His  tokens  in  the  sky 
Thou  canst  not  read :  this  earth  He  trod 

To  teach  thee  He  was  ever  nigh. 
He  sees,  beneath  the  fig-tree  green, 

Nathaniel  con  His  sacred  lore; 
Shouldst  thou  thy  chamber  seek,  unseen 

He  enters  through  the  unopened  door. 
And  when  thou  liest,  by  slumber  bound, 

Outwearied  in  the  Christian  fight, 
In  glory,  girt  with  saints  around, 

He  stands  above  thee  through  the  night. 
When  friends  to  Emmaus  bend  their  course, 

He  joins,  although  He  holds  their  eyes : 
Or,  shouldst  thou  feel  some  fever's  force, 

He  takes  thy  hand,  He  bids  thee  rise. 

Or  on  a  voyage,  when  calms  prevail, 

And  prison  thee  upon  the  sea, 
He  walks  the  waves,  He  wings  the  sail, 

The  shore  is  gained,  and  thou  art  free. 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Vere  is  a  poet  profound  in  feeling, 
and  gracefully  tender  in  utterance.  I  give  one  short 
poem  and  one  sonnet. 

REALITY. 
Love  thy  God,  and  love  Him  only : 
And  thy  breast  will  ne'er  be  lonely. 
In  that  one  great  Spirit  meet 
All  things  mighty,  grave,  and  sweet. 
Vainly  strives  the  soul  to  mingle 
With  a  being  of  our  kind : 
Vainly  hearts  with  hearts  are  twined : 
For  the  deepest  still  is  single. 
An  impalpable  resistance 
Holds  like  natures  still  at  distance. 
Mortal !  love  that  Holy  One ! 
Or  dwell  for  aye  alone. 
s.L.  IV.  Y 


322  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

I  respond  most  heartily  to  the  last  two  lines ;  but 
I  venture  to  add,  with  regard  to  the  preceding  six, 
"  Love  that  holy  One,  and  the  impalpable  resistance 
will  vanish;  for  when  thou  seest  him  enter  to  sup 
with  thy  neighbour,  thou  wilt  love  that  neighbour  as 
thyself." 

SONNET. 

Ye  praise  the  humble :  of  the  meek  ye  say, 

"  Happy  they  live  among  their  lowly  bowers ; 

"  The  mountains,  and  the  mountain-storms  are  ours." 

Thus,  self-deceivers,  filled  with  pride  alway, 

Reluctant  homage  to  the  good  ye  pay, 

Mingled  with  scorn  like  poison  sucked  from  flowers — 

Revere  the  humble ;  godlike  are  their  powers : 

No  mendicants  for  praise  of  men  are  they. 

The  child  who  prays  in  faith  "  Thy  will  be  done" 

Is  blended  with  that  Will  Supreme  which  moves 

A  wilderness  of  worlds  by  Thought  untrod ; 

He  shares  the  starry  sceptre,  and  the  throne : 

The  man  who  as  himself  his  neighbour  loves 

Looks  down  on  all  things  with  the  eyes  of  God ! 

Is  it  a  fancy  that,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  devotion 
and  lovely  thought,  I  hear  the  mingled  mournful  tone 
of  such  as  have  cut  off  a  right  hand  and  plucked 
out  a  right  eye,  which  had  not  caused  them  to  offend  ? 
This  is  tenfold  better  than  to  have  spared  offending 
members ;  but  the  true  Christian  ambition  is  to  fill 
the  divine  scheme  of  humanity — abridging  nothing, 
ignoring  nothing,  denying  nothing,  calling  nothing  un- 
clean, but  burning  everything  a  thank-offering  in  the 
flame  of  life  upon  the  altar  of  absolute  devotion  to 
the  Father  and  Saviour  of  men.    We  must  not  throw 


MRS.  BROWNING.  323 

away  half  his  gifts,  that  we  may  carry  the  other  half 
in  both  hands  to  his  altar. 

But  sacred  fervour  is  confined  to  no  sect.  Here  it 
is  of  the  profoundest,  and  uttered  with  a  homely 
tenderness  equal  to  that  of  the  earliest  writers.  Mrs. 
Browning,  the  princess  of  poets,  was  no  partisan. 
If  my  work  were  mainly  critical,  I  should  feel  bound 
to  remark  upon  her  false  theory  of  English  rhyme, 
and  her  use  of  strange  words.  That  she  is  careless 
too  in  her  general  utterance  I  cannot  deny  ;  but  in 
idea  she  is  noble,  and  in  phrase  magnificent.  Some 
of  her  sonnets  are  worthy  of  being  ranged  with  the 
best  in  our  language — those  of  Milton  and  Words- 
worth. 

BEREAVEMENT. 

When  some  Beloveds,  'neath  whose  eyelids  lay 

The  sweet  lights  of  my  childhood,  one  by  one 

Did  leave  me  dark  before  the  natural  sun, 

And  I  astonied  fell,  and  could  not  pray, 

A  thought  within  me  to  myself  did  say, 

"  Is  God  less  God  that  thou  art  left  undone  ? 

Rise,  worship,  bless  Him  !  in  this  sackcloth  spun, 

As  in  that  purple  !  " — But  I  answer,  Nay  ! 

What  child  his  filial  heart  in  words  can  loose, 

If  he  behold  his  tender  father  raise 

The  hand  that  chastens  sorely  ?     Can  he  choose 

But  sob  in  silence  with  an  upward  gaze  ? 

And  my  great  Father,  thinking  fit  to  bruise, 

Discerns  in  speechless  tears  both  prayer  and  praise.. 

COMFORT. 

Speak  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet, 
From  out  the  hallelujahs  sweet  and  low, 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  thee  so, 
Who  art  not  missed  by  any  that  entreat. 
Y   2 


324 


ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 


Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  thy  feet — 
And  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands  bestow,  ; 
Let  my  tears  drop  like  amber,  while  I  go 
In  reach  of  thy  divinest  voice  complete 
In  humanest  affection — thus,  in  sooth 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing !     As  a  child, 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for  evermore, 
Is  sung  to  in  its  stead  by  mother's  mouth ; 
Till  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-reconciled, 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 

Gladly  would  I  next  give  myself  to  the  exposition 
of  several  of  the  poems  of  her  husband,  Robert 
Browning,  especially  the  Christmas  Eve  and  Easter 
Day  ;  in  the  first  of  which  he  sets  forth  in  marvellous 
rhymes  the  necessity  both  for  widest  sympathy  with 
the  varied  forms  of  Christianity,  and  for  individual 
choice  in  regard  to  communion ;  in  the  latter,  what 
it  is  to  choose  the  world  and  lose  the  life.  But  this 
would  take  many  pages,  and  would  be  inconsistent 
with  the  plan  of  my  book. 

When  I  have  given  two  precious  stanzas,  most  wise 
as  well  as  most  lyrical  and  lovely,  from  the  poems  of 
our  honoured  Charles  Kingsley,  I  shall  turn  to  the 
other  of  the  classes  into  which  the  devout  thinkers 
of  the  day  have  divided. 

A  FAREWELL. 
My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you ; 

No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  grey  j 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you 
For  every  day. 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever; 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long ; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  for-ever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 


THE  DIVINE  JUDGMENT  325 

Surely  these  last,  who  have  not  accepted  tradition 
in  the  mass,  who  believe  that  we  must,  as  our  Lord 
demanded  of  the  Jews,  of  our  own  selves  judge 
what  is  right,  because  therein  his  spirit  works  with 
our  spirit, — worship  the  Truth  not  less  devotedly 
than  they  who  rejoice  in  holy  tyranny  over  their 
intellects. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE     QUESTIONING     FERVOUR. 

AND  now  I  turn  to  the  other  class — that  which, 
while  the  former  has  fled  to  tradition  for  refuge  from 
doubt,  sets  its  face  towards  the  spiritual  east,  and  in 
prayer  and  sorrow  and  hope  looks  for  a  dawn — the 
noble  band  of  reverent  doubters — as  unlike  those  of 
the  last  century  who  scoffed,  as  those  of  the  present 
who  pass  on  the  other  side.  They  too  would  know  ; 
but  they  know  enough  already  to  know  further,  that 
it  is  from  the  hills  and  not  from  the  mines  their  aid 
must  come.  They  know  that  a  perfect  intellectual 
proof  would  leave  them  doubting  all  the  same  ;  that 
their  high  questions  cannot  be  answered  to  the  intel- 
lect alone,  for  their  whole  nature  is  the  questioner; 
that  the  answers  can  only  come  as  questioners  and 
their  questions  grow  towards  them.  Hence,  grow- 
ing hope,  blossoming  ever  and  anon  into  the  white 
flower  of  confidence,  is  their  answer  as  yet  ;  their 
hope — the  Beatific  Vision — the  happy-making  sight, 
as  Milton  renders  the  word  of  the  mystics. 

It  is  strange  how  gentle  a  certain  large  class  of  the 
priesthood  will    be  with   those  who,  believing   there 


THE  DOUBTERS  AND  THE  CLERGY.         327 

is  a  God,  find  it  hard  to  trust  him,  and  how  fierce 
with  those  who,  unable,  from  the  lack  of  harmony 
around  and  in  them,  to  say  they  are  sure  there  is 
a  God,  would  yet,  could  they  find  him,  trust  him 
indeed.  "  Ah,  but,"  answer  such  of  the  clergy  and 
their  followers,  "  you  want  a  God  of  your  own  making." 
"  Certainly,"  the  doubters  reply,  "  we  do  not  want  a 
God  of  your  making  :  that  would  be  to  turn  the  uni- 
verse into  a  hell,  and  you  into  its  torturing  demons. 
We  want  a  God  like  that  man  whose  name  is  so  often 
on  your  lips,  but  whose  spirit  you  understand  so  little 
— so  like  him  that  he  shall  be  the  bread  of  life  to  all 
our  hunger — not  that  hunger  only  already  satisfied 
in  you,  who  take  the  limit  of  your  present  conscious- 
ness for  that  of  the  race,  and  say,  '  This  is  all  the 
world  needs : '  we  know  the  bitterness  of  our  own 
hearts,  and  your  incapacity  for  intermeddling  with  its 
joy.     We 

have  another  mountain-range,  from  whence 
Bursteth  a  sun  unutterably  bright  ; 

nor  for  us  only,  but  for  you  also,  who  will  not  have 
the  truth  except  it  come  to  you  in  a  system  autho- 
rized of  man." 

I  have  attributed  a  general  utterance  to  these  men, 
widely  different  from  each  other  as  I  know  they  are. 

Here  is  a  voice  from  one  of  them,  Arthur  Hugh 
Clough,  who  died  in  1 861,  well  beloved.  It  fol- 
lows upon  two  fine  poems,  called  The  Questioning 
Spirit,  and  Bethesda,  in  which  is  represented  the 
condition  of  many  of  the  finest  minds  of  the   pre- 


328  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

sent  century.  Let  us  receive  it  as  spoken  by  one 
in  the  foremost  ranks  of  these  doubters,  men  re- 
viled by  their  brethren  who  dare  not  doubt  for  fear 
of  offending  the  God  to  whom  they  attribute  their 
own  jealousy.  But  God  is  assuredly  pleased  with 
those  who  will  neither  lie  for  him,  quench  their  dim 
vision  of  himself,  nor  count  that  his  mind  which  they 
would  despise  in  a  man  of  his  making. 

Across  the  sea,  along  the  shore, 

In  numbers  more  and  ever  more, 

From  lonely  hut  and  busy  town, 

The  valley  through,  the  mountain  down, 

What  was  it  ye  went  out  to  see, 

Ye  silly  folk  of  Galilee  ? 

The  reed  that  in  the  wind  doth  shake  ? 

The  weed  that  washes  in  the  lake  ? 

The  reeds  that  waver,  the  weeds  that  float  ? — 

A  young  man  preaching  in  a  boat 

What  was  it  ye  went  out  to  hear 
By  sea  and  land,  from  far  and  near  ? 
A  teacher  ?    Rather  seek  the  feet 
Of  those  who  sit  in  Moses'  seat. 
Go  humbly  seek,  and  bow  to  them, 
Far  off  in  great  Jerusalem. 
From  them  that  in  her  courts  ye  saw, 
Her  perfect  doctors  of  the  law, 
What  is  it  came  ye  here  to  note  ? — 
A  young  man  preaching  in  a  boat 

A  prophet !     Boys  and  women  weak  ! 

Declare,  or  cease  to  rave : 
Whence  is  it  he  hath  learned  to  speak  ? 

Say,  who  his  doctrine  gave  ? 
A  prophet?     Prophet  wherefore  he 

Of  all  in  Israel  tribes  ? — 
He  teacheth  with  authority, 

And  not  as  do  the  Scribes. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


329 


Here  is  another  from  one  who  will  not  be  offended 
if  I  class  him  with  this  school — the  finest  of  critics  as. 
one  of  the  most  finished  of  poets — Matthew  Arnold. 
Only  my  reader  must  remember  that  of  none  of  my 
poets  am  I  free  to  choose  that  which  is  most  charac- 
teristic :  I  have  the  scope  of  my  volume  to  restrain  me. 

THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD  WITH  THE  KID. 

He  saves  the  sheep ;  the  goats  he  doth  not  save ! 
So  rang  Tertullian's  sentence,  on  the  side 
Of  that  unpitying  Phrygian  sect  which  cried  : 
"  Him  can  no  fount  of  fresh  forgiveness  lave, 
Who  sins,  once  washed  by  the  baptismal  wave  !  " 
So  spake  the  fierce  Tertullian.     But  she  sighed, 
The  infant  Church:  of  love  she  felt  the  tide 
Stream  on  her  from  her  Lord's  yet  recent  grave. 
And  then  she  smiled,  and  in  the  Catacombs, 
With  eye  suffused  but  heart  inspired  true, 
On  those  walls  subterranean,  where  she  hid 
Her  head  in  ignominy,  death,  and  tombs, 
She  her  Good  Shepherd's  hasty  image  drew ; 
And  on  his  shoulders,  not  a  lamb,  a  kid. 

Of  these  writers,  Tennyson  is  the  foremost :  he 
has  written  the  poem  of  the  hoping  doubters,  the 
poem  of  our  age,  the  grand  minor  organ-fugue  of 
/;/  Memoriam.  It  is  the  cry  of  the  bereaved  Psyche 
into  the  dark  infinite  after  the  vanished  Love.  His 
friend  is  nowhere  in  his  sight,  and  God  is  silent. 
Death,  God's  final  compulsion  to  prayer,  in  its  dread, 
its  gloom,  its  utter  stillness,  its  apparent  nothingness, 
urges  the  cry.  Moanings  over  the  dead  are  mingled 
with  profoundest  questionings  of  philosophy,  the  signs 
of  nature,  and  the  story  of  Jesus,  while  now  and  then 

28* 


330  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON 

the  star  of  the  morning,  bright  Phosphor,  flashes  a 
few  rays  through  the  shifting  cloudy  dark.  And  if 
the  sun  has  not  arisen  on  the  close  of  the  book,  yet 
the  Aurora  of  the  coming  dawn  gives  light  enough 
to  make  the  onward  journey  possible  and  hopeful : 
who  dares  say  that  he  walks  in  the  full  light  ?  that 
the  counsels  of  God  are  to  him  not  a  matter  of 
faith,  but  of  vision  ? 

Bewildered  in  the  perplexities  of  nature's  enigmas, 
and  driven  by  an  awful  pain  of  need,  Tennyson  be- 
takes himself  to  the  God  of  nature,  thus  : 


LIV. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave ; 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams, 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear ; 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God  ; 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


MARTHA,  MARY,  LAZARUS,  AND  ANOTHER.  331 

Once  more,  this  is  how  he  uses  the  gospel-tale  : 
Mary  has  returned  home  from  the  sepulchre,  with 
Lazarus  so  late  its  prey,  and  her  sister  and  Jesus  : — 


XXXII. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 


I  have  thus  traced— how  slightly !— the  course  of 
the  religious  poetry  of  England,  from  simple  song, 
lovingly  regardful  of  sacred  story  and  legend,  through 
the  chant  of  philosophy,  to  the  full-toned  lyric  of 
adoration.  I  have  shown  how  the  stream  sinks  in  the 
sands  of  an  evil  taste  generated  by  the  worship  of 
power  and  knowledge,  and  that  a  new  growth  of  the 


332  ENGLAND'S  ANTIPHON. 

love  of  nature — beauty  counteracting  not  contradict- 
ing science — has  led  it  by  a  fair  channel  back  to  the 
simplicities  of  faith  in  some,  and  tb  a  holy  question- 
ing in  others  ;  the  one  class  having  for  its  faith,  the 
other  for  its  hope,  that  the  heart  of  the  Father  is  a 
heart  like  ours,  a  heart  that  will  receive  into  its  noon 
the  song  that  ascends  from  the  twilighted  hearts  of 
his  children. 

Gladly  would  I  have  prayed  for  the  voices  of  many 
more  of  the  singers  of  our  country's  psalms.  Especially 
do  I  regret  the  arrival  of  the  hour,  because  of  the 
voices  of  living  men  and  women.  But  the  time  is 
over  and  gone.  The  twilight  has  already  embrowned 
the  gray  glooms  of  the  cathedral  arches,  and  is 
driving  us  forth  to  part  at  the  door. 

But  the  singers  will  yet  sing  on  to  him  that  hath 
ears  to  hear.  When  he  returns  to  seek  them,  the 
shadowy  door  will  open  to  his  touch,  the  long-drawn 
aisles  receding  will  guide  his  eye  to  the  carven  choir, 
and  there  they  still  stand,  the  sweet  singers,  content 
to  repeat  ancient  psalm  and  new  song  to  the  prayer 
of  the  humblest  whose  heart  would  join  in  England's 
Antiphon. 


THE  END. 


Princeton  Theological  Seminary-Speer  Li 


1    1012  01042  0554 


